


Tuunbaq; Or, The Whale

by infandomswetrust



Category: Moby Dick - Herman Melville, The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Age Difference, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cannibalism (Mentioned), Canon-Typical Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Charles Des Voeux Being Sassy, Did I mention praise kink, Enemies to Lovers, Fire, Fluff, Foreshadowing, Friends to Lovers, Greek Tragedies, Heavily Tattooed John Bridgens, Henry Peglar has a praise kink, Hickey being horrible, Hurt/Comfort, I'm The Worst Kind Of Sorry, Illiteracy, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Light Dom/sub, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, MCD but the character isn't a major character in this fic, Major Character Injury, Moby Dick AU - Freeform, Murder, Obsession, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Praise Kink, Romance, Sexual Assault (Mentioned), Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Silna being badass, St Elmo's Fire - Freeform, Tattoos, Teasing, There is Fluff in here I swear, Virginity, Whaling practices, canonical character deaths, flash blindness, sleepy handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:35:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 45,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26276524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infandomswetrust/pseuds/infandomswetrust
Summary: Years ago, an infamous white whale attacked Captain Crozier's ship and killed nearly everyone on board. The captain, overwhelmed with grief and thoughts of revenge, started hunting the creature and never stopped.Among the survivors of that first voyage was John Bridgens, who is about to set sail again with Crozier, now a shadow of the brilliant captain John once knew. Henry Peglar, returning to his true love - the sea -, meets Bridgens in an inn the evening before the Terror, Endgland's most famous whaler, ships.Between years of whaling, dubious shipmates, new friends, and the ever-present threat of the great white whale, some sailors might just find something, or someone, worth fighting for."Thou saw’st the locked lovers when leaping from their flaming ship; heart to heart they sank beneath the exulting wave; true to each other, when heaven seemed false to them"- Herman MelvilleThe Terror Big Bang 2020
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Charles Frederick Des Voeux/Lt Edward Little, John Bridgens/Harry Peglar
Comments: 68
Kudos: 59
Collections: The Terror Big Bang 2020





	1. Call Me Henry

**Author's Note:**

> It is with pleasure and anxiety that I give you this monster of a fic, my contribution to the Terror Big Bang 2020. 
> 
> The beautiful, incredible art for this is done by the wonderful [bacchanalium](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/bacchanalium)
> 
> If you're familiar with Moby Dick, the best way to put it is that Crozier is Ahab, but Blanky is too and so is Silna, and sometimes Hickey, who is also Stubb. Des Voeux is Starbuck, except for the times Fitzjames and Jopson are Starbuck, Bridgens is Queequeg unless Hickey or Fitzjames are Queequeg, Little is Fedallah but sometimes, Silna is too, and Henry is, of course, Ishmael, as is Crozier.  
> Simple, really.

Call me Henry. Years ago, when I was but a boy, I stood on a ship and knew my life belonged to the endless blue before me. I've been obsessed with the sea ever since I can remember. The sea took me in and raised me as its own, and when I look back upon my short life, it seems to me the sea must have mothered me as well. I feel it in my blood, the salt-water of the womb.

Tomorrow, I'm setting sail again. Just in the nick of time, perhaps. I need the sea like the drunk needs his whiskey. When the days become too long and too grey, and the people around me too selfish, as humans are wont to do, then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. The taste of salt on my lips, the call of seagulls in my ears and the sway of a ship on free waves are the only cure to the human condition. Almost all men, whether they know it or not, some time or other, cherish the same feelings towards the ocean. We crave, above all else, freedom, and the sea offers the truest freedom attainable by living men.

I love the sea. 

***

**PEGLAR**

Henry Peglar was an ordinary twenty-seven year old with too little money and too many dreams. He'd never had a formal education either, and half those dreams required him to be able to write and read. The one dream he could make reality for himself, was to sail. He’d practically grown up as a ship's boy, never too far from the water. Despite his lack of education, he was intelligent, more so than most of his elders on these journeys, which got him further than most ship’s boys, in a shorter time. There were others who fancied themselves clever, too clever to do what was asked of them, and they too were soon far away from Henry. He was patient, smart and loyal, and he rose from servant to seaman like an eager whale surfacing to blow.

But besides all that, there was one other quality Henry Peglar possessed, one that had nothing to do with the sea: Henry Peglar was lonely. He wasn’t just lonely as most people are lonely, he was _alone_ in the world, and alone in his own mind.

A few years ago, he’d been certain he was in love. Rose Murray had been a simple but beautiful girl, and Henry had loved her, in his way.

When he got older, he realized that their love was not the kind that survived; the kind that held two people together tighter and more safely than a ship’s rigging held the masts and anchored them safely amidst the storms and thrashing waves of life. 

Without ever getting married like he imagined they would when they’d first met, he ended it, with a heavy heart.

Rose was a lake, fresh and beautiful, but still and shallow.

Henry wanted the sea.

Henry loved the sea, but his love for Rose had kept him away from it for too long.

That was why he found himself stumbling down a rainy road near the docks of Liverpool on a cold winter night. It was his first night in town, and it would be his last for a long time. Tomorrow, the Terror, a whaling ship, would set sail, and Henry would be reunited with the sea. He had never been on a whaler before, but the only thing that rivaled his eagerness for sailing, was his eagerness to learn. If it were possible for one man to learn everything there was to know on earth, Henry Peglar had no doubt that he would be the first to do it.

Liverpool was strange and disorientating. If it were up to him, he would have preferred to set sail straight away, but he’d arrived late at night. He’d left home early so he could be sure not to miss the ship in the morning because of any travel issues that might have arisen on the way to Liverpool.

He hadn’t expected the weather, although he supposed he should have. There was nowhere near enough coin in his pocket to pay for any of the warm, cozy inns he’d passed.

The further away from the town center he got, the more dread filled his stomach and his chest. It was hard to see through the rain, and harder yet to breathe through the tight coil of anxiety in his throat. His months spent at sea doing hard labour had matured his mind, but not so much his body. He was slight, smaller than most men his age, and he did not enjoy fighting in the least. If someone were to jump him in the wet, dark alleys he’d gotten lost in, he would not even attempt to defend himself. The small bundle of belongings he had slung over his shoulder was meagre at best, but losing it would leave him with nothing more than the shirt on his back.

It would be a lesser issue if it were morning. Once aboard the whaler, he would have a place to sleep and eat and warm himself. Now, he was alone and wet in a city he didn’t know. If he were a charlatan, he thought to himself unhappily, a shivering young man clutching his wet bag would be a more than welcome sight.

No sooner had he thought it than his eyes caught something that was a welcome sight to the shivering young man instead.

A small old building. An inn.

A dirty, dubious, unwelcoming place, but unmistakably an inn, and dirty, dubious and unwelcoming was all that Henry could afford.

When he pushed the heavy door open, the wet wood slick and slimy under his shaking fingers, an array of voices singing a familiar shanty greeted him.

It was something of a comfort to hear; to know that there were fellow sailors in this establishment. Quite a few, by the sound of it. It didn’t quite feel like coming home, but it felt like turning down the final road that leads to your house, where you begin recognising the trees and the wells, the old broken fence that no one ever fixed, and the smell of your childhood.

When Henry rounded the corner, he realized that this inn must have been somewhat of the seamen’s burrow in this city.

A large harpoon was strung up on the wall, like a bizarre work of art lacking a frame. Henry couldn’t help but think it looked out of place in a building on dry land. As did, in fact, the men crowding around the tables beneath it. If it hadn’t been for the undeniably firm ground beneath his feet, he could have believed he was already on the Terror. There was not a doubt in his mind that every single one of the men in the room would be heading to the docks in the morning. He wondered how many, if any, of them would become his shipmates.

When he spotted a large man with red blotted cheeks setting down a pint in front of one of the sailors, he recognized him as the innkeeper and approached.

It wasn’t until the man - Mr. Wall, was how he introduced himself – told him that there wasn’t a single free bed in the inn, that he realized the crowd of sailors behind him was less of a blessing than he’d thought.

“Is there nowhere I could stay?” he asked, trying his best not to sound desperate. With a face and a frame like his, he knew he had to sound firm, no matter how he felt.

The innkeeper didn’t seem to care how firm Henry sounded, he looked at him with pity in his eyes all the same.

“ ’fraid not, lad. Unless, that is, you don’t mind sharing? We got no free beds, but one of them bigger rooms has a bed with ample space for two.”

“Share with a stranger, you mean?”

“No, lad, the Queen.”

Henry blushed and glanced off to the side. He’d always been uncomfortable with words as strong as 'hate', but he did hate it when people didn't take him seriously.

  
  


"Who is this stranger then, that you'd have me share with?" he asked instead of any sort of comment, trying to stay polite.

Mr. Wall’s thick brows knit together, creating meaty folds of skin on his forehead that Henry tried not to stare at.

"A harpooneer," he responded after a moment.

Henry wondered if the harpoon was perhaps not the odd room decoration he had taken it for at all but simply his would-be bedfellow's weapon. 

When the innkeeper continued, his voice was slightly lower than before. 

"Queer chap, he is... There's people saying he likes his meat raw, if you know what I mean." 

Henry frowned. He did not know what Mr. Wall meant, but he didn't want to come across as ignorant, so he nodded. 

Did he really want to share a bed with a man who inspired such cryptic rumours?

"So, eh, watch yer head tonight," Mr. Wall snickered. Henry's unease grew.

"I'm sorry, could you - could you tell me some more about him? Only, I don't want to share a bed with a complete stranger," he tried, diplomatically, to somehow get in on whatever joke Mr. Wall had told.

"Well, he calls himself Hickey. Doesn't talk much, not to me at least. Pays regularly, but then, I guess he don't need any fish he catches."

"Why is that?" Henry asked, perplexed and finally sick of the man's riddles.

" 'cause he ain't eating any fish, lad. Or cattle, or pig, for that matter."

Though still cryptic, Henry was starting to put two and two together, and for a moment, he wished he was outside in the cold again.

"You mean he- he's..."

"He's a cannibal, or so they say."

Henry gulped. He’d heard stories, but he didn’t know how many of the supposed violent behaviours people attributed to cannibals were fact.

"... You want me to share a bed with a cannibal?" he asked cautiously. If the innkeeper himself suggested it, it couldn’t be a true danger to share close quarters with one, or so he hoped.

Mr. Wall shrugged.

"It's what we've got. That, or the bench," he stated dryly, nodding at the wooden bench most of the sailors were sitting on.

Just when Henry genuinely considered whether or not the wooden bench might be a better alternative, a new voice joined the conversation.

“I’m sorry for interrupting.”

Henry turned. He would remember the moment he first laid eyes on John Bridgens for the rest of his life, though he didn’t know it yet. All he knew was that something came over him when his eyes found a pair of kind, dark ones, full of intelligence and patience. Something inside him slid into place, but he wouldn’t recognize that feeling for a while. One day, he’d remember it and know that it was fate giving him his final puzzle piece. That night in the inn, he dismissed it and studied the rest of the man.

He was taller than both him and Mr. Wall, but not necessarily _tall_. His eyes were without a doubt his most striking feature, followed closely by his thick salt-and-pepper hair. It was longer than most sailors kept theirs, but looking at the man, Henry knew he was a sailor all the same. He recognized the sea in the man’s eyes.

Before Henry could inspect and analyse his greying beard, the man spoke again. His voice fit the rest of his appearance almost too well. Deep and gentle. Warm and soft like a heavy blanket in the middle of December.

Henry was cold.

“I wouldn’t mind sharing my room, if the boy is uncomfortable sharing with Mr. Hickey.”

Despite the fact that the man had spoken to Mr. Wall, he was looking at Henry the whole time. And despite the fact that Henry wasn’t a _boy_ anymore, he found that he didn’t mind it when this man said it, because he said it with respect.

“That’d be a tight fit,” Mr. Wall responded. The innkeeper’s voice, which had been indulgent and sympathetic before, suddenly sounded hard and disdainful. The man seemed to take no note of, or offence to it. He was still looking at Henry with the same kind expression. He was smiling, Henry realized. Not with the lips half-hidden by his silvery beard, but with the eyes that held the waves of a storm and the peace of the sea all at once.

“I’d stick with the cannibal, boy,” Mr. Wall continued, addressing Henry. Mr. Wall most definitely did _not_ say it with respect.

The stranger's eyes still lingered on Henry, and Henry found it difficult to look away.

"Who are you?" he asked the man instead of answering Mr. Wall. He hadn't meant for it to sound rude or abrasive. He wasn't suspicious of the man, despite Mr. Wall’s clear disdain.

He was curious about him.

Again, the man seemed to take no note of any supposed impoliteness, and Henry wondered if he was simply used to it, and why.

"John Bridgens," the man introduced himself with his calm, gentle timber. "I'm a steward on one of the whalers down at the docks. We're sailing tomorrow, so you'll have the room to yourself after tonight."

Henry shook his head. The man hadn't extended a hand, but Henry held his own out to shake regardless.

"No need," he said, belatedly. Bridgens' hand felt warm against his own frozen one, and Henry almost wanted to apologize. "I'm sailing tomorrow morning too. I'm a foremast hand on one of the whalers."

He realised a few seconds too late that he'd never introduced himself, but before he could offer his name, Bridgens spoke again.

"I'm only aware of one whaler leaving tomorrow morning... You wouldn't happen to be a foremast hand aboard the Terror, would you?"

Henry's eyes widened slightly.

Would it be smart to share a bed with a man he'd spend the next couple of months with on a ship? He wanted to make friends on the journey, of course, but he didn't want to be premature.

Bridgens was still looking at him. Henry still saw the sea in his eyes.

"Henry Peglar," he finally said with a slight nod as a way of affirmation. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bridgens."

Before the older man could respond, Henry turned to Wall again.

"I'll take it."

The innkeeper seemed to grimace at the mere thought, but someone in the crowd of drinking sailors called out to him and he left with a dismissive shrug.

Suddenly, Henry felt nervous, even though he and Bridgens had just had a perfectly comfortable conversation already without Mr. Wall providing any input.

"I'll show you to the room."

The steward's gentle voice almost made Henry jump. Quickly collecting himself, he nodded and gestured to indicate for the other man to lead the way.

They climbed up a narrow wooden stairway that made frankly concerning sounds beneath their boots. Most patrons seemed to be down by the tables, because the dimly lit hallway Bridgens guided him through upstairs was completely empty.

Henry was searching for words. He wanted to strike up a conversation - a proper conversation - with this man. There was something about him that drew Henry in. He wanted to know him. He wanted to explore the sea he'd seen in his eyes.

"Just through here."

Once more, the steward's voice tore him out of his reverie. They'd reached the last door. The few oil lamps lighting the hallway were too far away now to still give any light, and they found themselves drenched in darkness.

"I can't see anything," Henry remarked, unnecessarily, with a slightly nervous laugh. To his surprise, he heard the steward chuckle as well after a moment.

His laughter was like the rest of him: a warm comfort in a dark corner.

Something touched Henry's arm, and for the split of a second, he froze in fear.

Then, Bridgens' voice soothed him for what would be the first of many, many times.

"Here," the steward said quietly. His hand slid down to Henry's elbow, and he carefully guided him through the door.

"... You must have been staying here for a while," Henry said. It felt like a desperate attempt at a casual comment.

"To find your way into the room blind."

He received a thoughtful hum in response, and then the hand left his elbow. He heard a sizzling sound, and a moment later, the room became visible to him with the unsteady flicker of the lamp Bridgens was lighting.

Only then did the steward turn to reply in kind.

"I've come here a lot over the years."

Henry nodded. The other man was clearly an experienced sailor, if his age was any indication.

"How long have you been a sailor?" Henry asked. He wondered why Bridgens was only a steward if he had as much experience as his demeanor and appearance indicated.

"Thirty years" was the response he received.

Henry’s brows went up, and going by the steward’s wry smile, his surprise was very visible.

“That’s a long time,” Henry hurried to say. “I’m twenty-seven.”

“... It’s a short time to be alive, and a long time to be at sea,” Bridgens responded after a comfortable pause. Henry didn’t know what to say, so he simply nodded and turned away to get himself situated in the room.

He stilled for a moment when he took in the bed. He understood now what Wall had meant when he’d said it would be a tight fit.

Henry glanced back at the steward. He seemed like a kind, honest man. Henry decided he would certainly rather sleep in a narrow bed with someone like Bridgens than in a large one with some potentially violent stranger like this Mr. Hickey.

The other man hadn’t moved yet, and Henry tried to remember if Bridgens had looked _away_ from him at all since they met.

He tried to remember if _he’d_ looked away from _Bridgens._

“You should get changed into something dry. How long were you out in the rain?”

Henry looked down at himself as if he’d only just noticed he was sopping wet.

“I’m not sure,” he muttered, more to himself. His bundle was as wet as he was, but luckily, his nightshirt had miraculously remained mostly dry. “It’s my first night in Liverpool,” he explained. When his jumper and his undershirt landed on the floor with a wet, heavy thud, he started shivering. It was nowhere near warm enough in the room, and the air bit at his clammy skin. “I’ve never been here before. Usually I sail from London,” he added while he quickly fumbled to put on his nightshirt.

It was cheap, old fabric and didn’t do much to warm him up. He remembered seeing a fireplace downstairs and was tempted to sit by its hearth until he felt warm again. At the same time, he had no desire to go back outside and surround himself with drunken strangers, when he’d finally made it to the quiet comfort of a room and shared privacy. His longing gaze fell onto the bed. The blanket was calling to him like a siren. When he turned, he was startled to find the steward had moved. Instead of the other end of the room, he was standing right in front of him now.

“You look cold,” the man said softly. “I have a spare jumper, if you want. A dry one,” he added with the hint of a smile. When Henry managed to look away from that smile, he saw that Bridgens was holding out a worn maroon jumper. Without thinking, Henry reached for it. His fingers closed around it, and it felt like a soft gentle caress against his skin.

“...Thank you.”

“It will be a bit big on you, no doubt,” the steward added, and this time, Henry smiled along with him.

While he pulled the jumper over his head, the room fell silent. When Henry was done pushing his head through the warm fabric, he saw that John Bridgens had once again retreated to his corner. For a moment, they looked at each other wordlessly. It was Bridgens who broke the silence.

“What brings you to Liverpool? They have far bigger whalers in London.”

“I know... I wanted to sail on the Terror.”

“...Is it the ship you came here for, or-”

“No. Not the ship.”

They both fell silent for a moment. Terror’s Captain was as famous as he was infamous. As brilliant as he was mad. Stories about him had been told on every single ship Henry had been on since his youth.

“I see.”

“... Do you know him? Captain Crozier, I mean.”

“I do, yes.”

“You’ve sailed with him before?”

“Twice.”

Henry paused for a moment. Only now did it occur to him how he must have been coming across.

“... I didn’t sign up for this journey in hopes of witnessing a scandal, Mr. Bridgens. I know that must be the reason many young seamen join Crozier’s crew. But I’m not looking to amuse myself over a broken man’s struggle. I’m looking to sail under what I have been assured is one of the best Captains of our time.”

“... He used to be.” Bridgens sighed. Instead of continuing, he stepped forward to sit at the small, wobbly table next to the lone cupboard in the room. Only once he was settled in the chair, as if he were unwilling to talk and move at the same time, did Bridgens speak again. “I was sailing with him when it happened.”

Henry didn’t have to ask what ‘it’ was.

“Did you-” He was shocked to find his own voice weak. “Did you see the whale?”

Bridgens smiled tiredly.

“The whale...” he repeated softly. “I’m not sure what I saw was a whale, Mr. Peglar.”

Henry swallowed. He did not believe in ghosts or demons, mermaids or kraken. Looking at Mr. Bridgens, he would not expect him to be the sort of man who did either. Perhaps that was precisely why he was scared to ask for further clarification.

“What happened?” Henry asked instead.

“You’ve heard the stories, surely.”

“I’ve heard the stories. I haven’t heard the truth.”

This, for some reason, made Bridgens smile. He gestured at the free chair.

“If you’re certain you want to spend your first evening in Liverpool listening to an old sailor’s tales...”

“I’d be honoured.”

Again, they shared a smile.

Henry was starting to feel a bit warmer with the loose maroon jumper wrapped around himself. It was thicker than the jumper Bridgens was currently wearing. Henry hoped the other man wasn’t cold himself, but he didn’t know how to ask.

“I was a steward then as well,” Bridgens began. “It was my first time sailing with Captain Crozier. We started the voyage with forty men and returned with fifteen. Two of those started the voyage with all four limbs attached and returned with three limbs each.”

“Mr. Blanky,” Henry intercepted, because this was a part of the story everybody knew. The man who had faced the mysterious white whale twice and had been walking on a peg leg since. Bridgens nodded. In his expression, Henry could see that he was fond of Mr. Blanky.

“Thomas Blanky, yes. He lost his leg to the beast, as you’re well aware. And Henry Collins, who lost his arm. He hasn’t been back on a ship since, as far as I know. In fact...” Bridgens trailed off and gave the softest of sighs, carrying an amount of empathy that left Henry feeling ashamed of every time he’d failed to feel for somebody else. “... Last I heard, he was in an asylum.”

Henry frowned, resting a hand on the table between them, like a subtle surrogate for a reassuring touch to the arm or the shoulder.

“Did anything happen to _you_?” he asked, before realizing how personal a question that was. “...I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s alright,” the steward said, gently, as if he knew exactly what went on in Henry’s mind. “I was one of the lucky ones.”

“No one on that voyage was lucky,” Henry said softly. Bridgens looked at him for a long moment before giving a slow, honest nod. The sea in his eyes had frozen over.

“No,” he agreed quietly. “We weren’t... Crozier tried everything in his power to save us – save his men – but that beast... The whale. We had no chance.”

Henry was still watching Bridgens as closely as he had all evening, and he recognized the dull, faraway look in his eyes. The man’s mind had left the room and was on that doomed journey. ‘Come back to me,’ Henry thought quietly.

“You said you sailed with Crozier twice. When was the second time?” he asked instead. The steward had offered him his jumper against the cold, so Henry tried to offer him the red thread of conversation against his memories. He was sure the notion was silly, until Bridgens turned his head slightly to look directly at Henry again, and the look on his face was one of gratitude.

“Last year. I hadn’t seen him since our first voyage, and I try not to believe in rumours. Seeing him – actually seeing him – with a bottle for a first mate and no love left in his eyes for either his men or the world... It’s a terrible thing, Mr. Peglar, revenge. It can drive a man beyond the limits of his sanity. And Captain Crozier...He has become obsessed with it.”

“... Then why is his crew still following him? I’ve heard talk that Mr. Blanky is setting sail with us tomorrow. And you – why are you coming back to sail with him a third time?”

Again, Henry’s voice held only curiosity; no judgement or impoliteness, though by now he was fairly certain the steward would answer calmly and gently either way.

Bridgens leaned back in his chair and finally dropped his gaze, though not enough to hide the sad smile that took over his features.

“... Because revenge is a terrible thing,” he repeated quietly.

  
  


Henry frowned deeply as he considered all the meanings and implications of that, until he realized Bridgens was once again watching him. It was only then that Henry realized the other man was just as intrigued by him as vice versa, for whatever reason. It made him slightly bolder in his line of questioning; the thought that the steward had an equal interest in keeping the conversation going.

“May I ask, why did Mr. Wall act so hostile towards you?”

He had expected the question to catch Bridgens off guard, but instead, the man almost seemed as if he had been expecting it.

“I’m afraid I cannot say for sure, but I suspect it’s to do with the fact that I am a sodomite.”

Henry was quiet for a moment. He’d never been a particularly pious man, and, more importantly, he tried to judge people by what they did, not what they were. Still, for the split of a second, he couldn’t help but think of all the kindness Bridgens had shown him so far, and worry that he might have had an ulterior motive.

He didn’t believe sodomites were the immoral devils some claimed they were. In fact, he was certain he’d unknowingly sailed with many, perhaps even been friends with some. Even _if_ their preference said something about their morality; Henry studied the man sitting across from him and could in no way imagine that the kind, intelligent steward would turn immoral overnight and violate him in their shared bed. The thought seemed so impossible, in fact, that Henry almost snorted. When he caught Bridgens’ gaze again, he realised he’d been quiet for too long.

He couldn’t think of the right words to show his acceptance – or rather, his indifference – in time, seeing as the steward spoke again the moment their eyes met.

“If you would rather find a different bedfellow-”

“No,” Henry interrupted quickly. “No, it’s alright. I don’t mind. It’s none of my business either way.”

He looked away. For some reason, he didn’t want to see Bridgens’ reaction to his words. The silence stretched uncomfortably this time. Desperate to break it, Henry cleared his throat and got up.

“It’s been a long day. I think I’ll lie down.” He could tell his words sounded stilted, too formal in comparison to the easy conversation they’d been sharing all evening. “Lest I fall asleep here at the table,” he added, trying to bring some familiarity back.

“Of course,” Bridgens said, getting up as well. “I was planning to read a while before going to bed, but if the light bothers you, I can go elsewhere.”

“Not at all,” Henry responded, noting with relief that their conversation was gaining ground again. He couldn’t help but be curious about the book the man pulled from the cupboard. Watching people read had always filled him with adoration as well as jealousy. He liked dreaming the hours away, up in the rigging of a ship. He could only imagine what it might have been like to see someone else’s waking dreams, put to paper.

Bridgens noticed his curiosity and held up the book he’d been about to open.

“Do you know it?”

Henry could feel a hot flush of shame. He tried to stutter out some vague response that wouldn’t reveal his ignorance, but his expression must have given him away even in the dim light of the lonely oil lamp on the table.

“I apologise,” the steward said immediately, and his voice sounded truly regretful. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

Henry swallowed and nodded, trying to act as if he didn’t care in the least, as most common crewmen his age would. Trying, and failing, going by the look of the steward’s observant face.

“You’re very intelligent,” the older man continued. “I’m sorry for likening that to literacy, the two have little in common. I should know better than to make such shallow judgements.”

Henry blushed again, but this time, he wasn’t sure if it was out of embarrassment. Worse still, he didn’t know what to say. Maybe, that said more than any words would have, for Bridgens didn’t try to wait for an answer.

“There’s no shame in it, Mr. Peglar. I know men who’ve written novels, and who make for far duller conversational partners than you’ve proven to be.”

At that, Henry finally mustered a smile.

“You don’t have to lie for the sake of my pride, Mr. Bridgens.”

“I wasn’t.”

The two looked at each other until Bridgens started to smile again, gentle and encouraging.

They began to speak at the same time.

“If you’re bothered by it, perhaps I could-”

“Would you terribly mind trying to-”

They both snapped their mouths shut and smiled at each other.

“-teach me,” Henry finished unnecessarily.

Bridgens nodded, the same smile still on his features.

“Teach you,” he concluded.

Henry sat down on the bed and wondered how one man could possess the kindness of ten. The jumper lay comfortably against his skin. In one evening, John Bridgens had offered him more than Henry had asked for in all the years of his life.

“We’ll have a lot of time together once we’re sailing,” the steward continued. “With your mind, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were writing novels yourself by the time we come back.”

Henry laughed, honest and unguarded. He could feel Bridgens’ eyes on himself and wasn’t surprised to find the man smiling.

“...Thank you,” Henry stated quietly once he’d sobered slightly. The steward simply nodded and sat down with his book.

“Goodnight, Mr. Peglar.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Bridgens.”

  
  


Henry fell asleep for a little while. It wasn’t a particularly deep sleep. He was too aware of the man sat at the table a few feet away. Not uncomfortable, just...aware. As soon as he heard Bridgens rise, he was fully awake again. He wondered if he should say something, to somehow make the steward aware that he was still awake. For whatever reason, he found himself unable to speak. In the failing light, Bridgens walked to the cupboard again to put his book away and take out what Henry assumed were his nightclothes. When the steward changed out of his shirt, Henry stilled. He could just about make out large, blackish looking stains on the man’s chest, his back and down his arms. At first, he thought they were bruises, that the poor steward had perhaps been in a fight, but he blinked his eyes a few times and realized they weren’t stains at all. They were tattoos. Henry was gripped by an almost unbearable curiosity. The man had been a sailor for a long time and it showed in his body as clearly as it showed in his eyes. Henry suddenly ached to get a closer look. He wanted to study the dark lines of Bridgens’ tattoos one by one. He wanted to trace them with his fingers like he was tracing them with his eyes. To let his fingers draw new ones on the few patches of clean skin. He wanted to look at the man from up close and press his lips to the dark lines on his chest, trace them with… 

Trace them with his tongue.

Henry Peglar almost leapt out of the bed in shock. Never in his life had he had thoughts like that, least of all about another man. And yet, he still couldn’t take his eyes off of Bridgens. The steward still didn’t seem to notice Henry’s gaze on him nor the younger man’s sudden crisis.

As the tattoos disappeared again behind the fabric of a new shirt, Henry remembered his earlier thought. John Bridgens wouldn’t do anything untoward to him. But as he thought it, a dark, unfamiliar part of Henry wished he would.

Bridgens put out the light, and Henry tensed when he heard the steward approach the bed, confused and shocked by his own thoughts.

He could feel the dip of the mattress and a second later, he gasped when he felt the press of Bridgens body against his own – the narrow bed had come to haunt Henry after all. Bridgens froze, having clearly heard the gasp.

“Apologies,” the older man whispered. His voice was somehow, impossibly, even deeper now. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Henry swallowed and prayed to a God he hoped would listen that his voice might sound steady when he spoke.

“It’s alright,” he whispered back. “It’s not your fault the bed is so small.” His body brushed against Bridgens in various places with every minute move he made. Even taking a breath seemed to push him closer to the steward.

He pretended not to notice the stirrings of arousal in his lower stomach. If he didn’t acknowledge it, he convinced himself, it would go away.

“... If you’re uncomfortable, it’s not too late to-” the steward began, and Henry suddenly couldn’t bear the kindness in his voice.

“I’m not,” he said quickly, almost sharply, and winced at his own voice.

“...It’s warmer this way,” he added apologetically, softly now.

He could feel Bridgens nod. He wished the steward would say something, but he did not. Henry was left alone with his thoughts, tense and still like a possum playing dead.

Part of him wished Bridgens would fall asleep so he could quietly slip out of the room and sleep on the wooden bench after all. At the same time, he was well aware that he would not be able to bring himself to do such a thing. He knew that there was almost nothing in the world powerful enough to make him leave this bed and the warmth of the other man’s solid body next to his own.

Bridgens’ breath was calm and melodic, and Henry allowed it to guide his own. Bit by bit, he managed to relax a little more with each exhale.

When he started letting go of all his muscles, he ended up fully resting against Bridgens with no gap between them to speak of. It was this that finally allowed him to fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The OG "there was only one bed," Melville was so ahead of his time


	2. The Terror

**BRIDGENS**

  
  


Many things remained the same on every whaling voyage. There was always a ship’s boy who got sick the first time the crew brought back a whale. The ship’s biscuits were always too hard to eat without getting a toothache. The sailors would always find reasons to sing, be it out of joy or out of dread.

Those were the little things John took comfort in. They’d been sailing for more than seven months now. The Terror was a large ship, bigger than the ill-fated whaler they’d barely managed to sail back to safety once upon a time.

For all the things that remained the same even on the Terror, there were twice as many differences.

Captain Crozier was in a worse state than the last time Bridgens had sailed with him. In more than half a year of shipping, they’d rarely seen their captain, and every time they did, he was harsh and unreasonable. All he cared about was the whale.

Just a week ago, he’d had one of their harpooneer’s lashed for disrespecting the officers. Mr. Hickey, the cannibal his dear Henry would have shared a bed with all these months ago, had proven to be a regular sea lawyer. John didn’t blame Captain Crozier for losing his patience with the man. There had been multiple occasions of shipboard arguments and violence on their journey so far, and Hickey was somehow involved in every single one. He himself feared the man was recruiting fellow seamen for a mutiny. He didn't blame the captain for wanting to see the man punished for his impudence, but to him, it was plain that the lashing had only played into Hickey’s hands.

Unfortunately, the cannibal was the least of their worries. The beast, the whale, the _creature_ had been sighted again and again, always just out of reach, and gone by the time the whaling boats reached it.

It seemed to them that the whale was following their ship. John felt that _they_ were the ones being hunted, not the other way around.

Besides the captain’s drunken temper, the crew also whispered and tattled about a group of mysterious men that had boarded the ship with them in Liverpool. They didn’t seem to be part of the ship’s hierarchy, seeing as they were neither mates, servants, nor ordinary seamen. There was nothing ordinary about them. The captain would confer with these men, and these men alone. Not even the mates were included in these ‘command meetings’. The crew was left in the dark about the captain's plans and decisions, and the captain didn't seem to care about the plans and decisions of his crew. 

Their situation seemed dire, even more so when the whale was sighted increasingly more often. Every sighting seemed to only stoke the fire of Crozier’s obsession. They were trapped on a ship with a brilliant, capable madman.

Despite all that, John had never enjoyed a voyage more than this one. The reason for that was currently sitting on the steward’s bunk with one of his books.

Henry had made remarkable progress, and in their discussions about the books he read, the young man continued to surprise him with his mind. Henry was one of the brightest, most gifted people he had ever met, even though he struggled with reading and spelling in ways John was unfamiliar with, but suspected was some sort of condition. 

Henry had such a pure, excitable heart that John couldn’t help but smile every time he noticed the young man’s endless eagerness.

He remembered the night Henry had come back from his first whaling trip. John rarely stayed on board for the preparation of the whales. He wasn’t squeamish, but the other men were more than capable of cutting the whales apart and extracting the oil that would light the lamps of many cities for months. John simply wasn’t needed on deck, and unlike other, morbidly curious seamen, he preferred staying in his cabin to read.

That night, Henry had burst through his door, red-cheeked and wild-haired, a glow in his eyes that made John’s heart stutter in his chest. The young man had tried to pace around in John's small cabin and told him all about how Tashtego, a middle-aged man of Native American descent who was as skilled as he was passionate and acted as the harpooneer on Henry's boat, had hit the whale with his harpoon.

John was secretly grateful that Henry had been an oarsman in Tashtego’s boat and not Hickey’s. He only hoped that luck would hold until the end of their journey.

If Henry registered John’s concern, he never showed it. 

He’d been too busy describing how the whale had pulled their boat along once the harpoon was stuck in its back, how the wind had ruffled Henry’s hair and the waves had crashed against the speeding boat.

John wanted to frame the giddy smile the young man had had on his features and keep it forever.

In all his life, John had never felt closer to anyone than he did to the man sitting on his bunk.

“You’re staring at me, John.”

Henry looked up at him with the clever, teasing smile that never failed to make John’s heart beat faster.

John chuckled.

“I’m admiring how immersed you get when you read. I often feel like you’re no longer even sitting in my cabin.”

“Well, I’m not,” Henry responded with a slight grin, looking down at his book again. “I’m in Troy.”

John smiled, glancing at the copy of Euripides’ _The Trojan Women_ in his young friend’s hands. He’d recently started educating Henry on Greek tragedies.

“What are your thoughts on it so far?” he asked. Henry had only just borrowed the play the evening prior, but John knew he'd already have opinions on it, despite working hard all day long.

“Hmm,” Henry began thoughtfully and closed the book to focus on John. Having the young man’s full attention on himself always filled John with an almost possessive thrill. “I like it. I like the themes it portrays and questions it asks...” He trailed off before grinning, both rueful and cheeky. “In terms of entertainment value... I think I preferred _Hippolytus_.”

John laughed, and held his hand out for the book to check what page Henry was on.

“Well, I appreciate your honesty... As would Euripides, I’m sure.” He couldn’t help but smile when he realised Henry had been in the middle of Ganymede’s Ode and handed the book back. “But you’ll finish it anyway, Henry,” he added, a bit more firmly, even though it was impossible for him not to smile when he looked at Henry.

“I never said I wouldn’t!” Henry exclaimed, his grin widening.

It was strange how much the two of them managed to laugh and smile on a journey as merciless as this one.

John had realised a while ago that he was in love with Henry.

The thought filled him with joy, rather than bitterness. He knew the boy wasn’t a sodomite – or, at least, had never partaken in sodomy – but the likelihood of never getting to touch and kiss him how he wanted didn’t bother him. The thought wasn’t painful to him. To the contrary, he loved Henry as a friend just as much as he’d love him as an intimate bed-mate.

Henry took the book, but put it down on the bunk. John arched a brow at him.

“Aren’t you going to read?”

“I’ll finish it tomorrow. I’d rather just talk to you tonight... Come sit with me,” Henry said, patting the space on the bunk next to himself.

Neither of them had ever been shy about physical contact or proximity, which John assumed stemmed from the fact that they’d spent the very night they’d first met pressed against one another. Still, their touches always remained innocent and friendly. After all, even if the younger man were a sodomite, John didn’t engage in any sexual activity when at sea. It was a personal principle he’d always stood fast by, not to mention part of the ship’s articles.

When John sat down next to Henry, he didn’t care how close they were sitting. They were and always would be fully comfortable in each other’s presence.

Henry smiled at him. He smelled of oil, smoke and sweat - and better than anything else on this godforsaken ship.

“Do you have any new stories about our three phantoms?” the younger man asked, referring to Crozier’s mysterious confidantes.

Being a steward, John saw and heard things others didn’t, and he’d gotten closer to the three men than anyone else had, save for Crozier's personal steward, perhaps. All John knew was that one of these three figures was none other than Thomas Blanky himself.

“None that I haven’t already told you, my dear Henry.”

His friend smiled, and John spotted the sweet blush on his cheeks that often followed any compliments the other man received. John mirrored his smile and allowed himself to study Henry’s face freely. The even, neat beard he’d grown, the freckles on the bridge of his nose and his cheeks, the soft, floppy brown hair that fell onto his forehead. When his eyes found Henry’s, the younger man’s pupils were wide and his eyelashes fluttered with irregular blinks.

"You gift me all this knowledge," Henry said, his voice softer than necessary. "I feel I won't ever be able to repay you."

"Your friendship, Henry," John replied gently. "That is how you've repaid me. A discussion with you has more value to me than gold."

“... John,” Henry whispered, and John watched, both excited and concerned, as the boy leaned closer.

Before the thing John feared and wanted most could happen, they were torn from their private little reality by the sudden sounds of screams.

Henry jumped up, but the ship rocked to the side with enough force to throw him against the cabin door instantly.

“Henry!”

John reached out a hand to help him back up. Luckily, he seemed uninjured, but the look in his eyes betrayed that he was thinking the same thing John was.

That hadn’t been a mere wave. Something had collided with the ship – something big.

The screaming continued, and both of them hurried to get on deck.

One of the ship’s boys, Thomas Evans, met them by the stairs. The boy was in hysterics.

“It’s the whale! It- I saw it, it came up right next to the ship!”

John felt his chest go cold, and he fought the instinct to tell Henry to go back to his steward’s cabin and not come out again until the beast was gone.

“Mr. Hickey!” Evans cried, storming away from them when the harpooneer appeared. “The captain’s sent me to get you and Mr. Strong on deck with your harpoons!”

John bit back his frown with difficulty. The fact that Mr. Hickey of all people was a harpooneer simply didn’t sit right with him. He didn’t trust the man, and neither did anyone else who wasn’t already part of his posse.

“John.” Henry’s voice tore him from his thoughts. The younger man was already halfway up the stairs. “Come on.”

  
  


The deck was in a state of chaos. John had never been to war, but he had heard and read stories describing battlefields in the midst of a fight, and the deck, at that moment, did not seem far off. Tashtego was already on deck, as were Hartnell, the youngest harponeer, and Daggoo, an African harpooneer and by far the tallest man on the Terror. Hickey and Strong, the two remaining harpooners climbed onto deck with their weapons a moment later. That same moment, the hostility the men held against their captain became obvious to John for the first time. Crozier stepped onto deck, and all seamen who had been frantically searching the waves for the white whale a moment ago, fell silent and looked at the captain. John couldn’t see all their faces, but he could feel their disdain.

Surrounding the captain were the three men Henry called the phantoms. For the first time, they stood on deck for everyone to see.

John heard some gasps and whispers as the crew recognized Mr. Blanky.

The other two were strangers even to him. Crozier paid no mind to his crew. He was staring out at the waves, as if his gaze alone could lure the monster back to the surface.

Blanky and the other two turned away to go to the other side of the deck, where one of the whaling boats swung. The crew stepped out of the strangers’ path as if they were demons. The three didn’t deign a glance at them. Their single-minded focus was on the boat, and they began casting it loose with quiet efficiency that betrayed a lot of experience and skill. John wondered if these men were some sort of separate specialists Crozier had hired. If they were, John realised, their captain didn’t trust his own crew. 

“All ready there, Edward?” Crozier shouted.

One of the three men straightened his back. John observed him quickly. He carried himself with strength and authority, and he seemed very familiar with Crozier. He wore his beard in the form of thick side-whiskers that were ever so slightly disturbed by the wind on deck. His face looked young, but his eyes were old.

“Ready, captain!” the man shouted back.

“Lower away, then!”

Before the crew of three could follow the order, something collided with the ship yet again. The chaos was back in an instant, the strange spell the appearance of the phantoms had put the crew under broken.

“Out of the way!” John stepped aside quickly when William Strong charged past with his harpoon. “Where is it?” the young harpooneer called.

“Here! On the lee-beam!” one of the other sailors called back, pointing down at the waves wildly. “I can see the white below the surface!”

Strong ran leeward, followed by one of the three phantoms and the harpooneer Tashtego.

Young Billy Strong was the first to reach the ship’s railing.

The boy thrust his harpoon down, and from his cheer, John knew he had hit his target.

There was a scream lodged somewhere deep in John’s chest. A warning, a wail, a desperate shout for Strong to get away from the railing.

He knew what the whale was capable of. He knew how many harpoons had pierced its skin, and how many men it had killed for it. He knew, and so did their captain. John wanted to look at Crozier, but his eyes would not move away from Strong.

In all his life, John had never seen anything happen as fast the death of William Strong did.

The beast shoved the ship again, and the impact threw the young harpooneer over the side. John could feel the boy’s scream in his teeth.

“Man overboard!” one of the desperate sailors cried.

The sound of a body hitting the water was familiar to any man who’d been to sea often enough. That was not the sound John heard when Strong fell. The sickening crunch that came up from the lee-beam turned his stomach more than the boy’s scream had.

Before any of the men could so much as glance over the railing, the whale came up, just behind the Terror. The size of it still made John’s blood run cold, after all this time. As it surfaced, the waves it created crashed onto the deck, and scared crewmen fled to hold onto whatever was in their reach as the ship was pushed away by the massive whale.

When it blew, the water came up red. John didn’t want to know if it was the whale’s blood, or Billy Strong’s.

“Edward!”

Over the chaos, their captain’s voice rang out. John turned to see Crozier running towards the whaling boat his crew had loosened. He was carrying a shotgun.

“Quick. We can still catch it!” was what their captain said. The three phantoms looked at each other. When they didn’t immediately move to comply, Crozier hit the railing with his fist.

“Damn your eyes, Strong could still be alive!” the captain yelled. This got the three men to move.

As they hurried to prepare the boat, first mate Hornby dared to speak up.

“Captain Crozier?” said Hornby, visibly uncertain and confused about the presence and the role of these three strangers.

“Spread yourselves,” Crozier shouted, finally turning to address his crew. “Give way, all six boats!”

The crew jumped into action, and for a moment, John wondered if the men were trying to prove themselves, now that Crozier had revealed how little he seemed to trust in their skill.

As a steward, John would remain on the Terror as one of the shipkeepers.

As a regular crewman, Henry would not.

When John moved across the deck to find his young friend, he came past the boat Crozier and his phantoms were preparing. Ship’s boy Thomas Evans was standing beside Crozier.

“Captain?” the boy asked shyly. “May I come with you?”

Crozier barely looked at him. He told the boy what John knew he would.

“No ship’s boys.”

Evans stepped forward, right in front of their captain until he had no choice but to meet the boy’s gaze.

“... Sir, please,” Evans said miserably. Crozier paused and studied him.

For the split of a second, John recognised the man he’d known, once upon a time. A clever, caring, selfless captain.

“Is Strong a mate of yours?” Crozier asked the boy.

Evans nodded.

“He’s a brick to us boys, sir.”

John could see the hesitation in Crozier’s eyes, and he knew it had every reason to be there. Ship’s boys weren’t whalers. Evans was supposed to stay here as a keeper along with John and the other ship’s boys, Golding and Pip.

John found himself hoping the captain would deny the boy’s request. He could see the precise moment Crozier made his decision, pressured by their dwindling time window, and the fleeing creature.

“You’re with me.”

John frowned deeply, hearing the boy’s earnest ‘thank-you’ as he kept walking

“John!” Henry called out, having turned and spotted him in that moment. He waved him over to the ladder leading to the crew’s lodgings.

John followed him with slight confusion, but figured his friend wanted to bid him goodbye away from all the frantic chaos on deck.

Once they stood between the hammocks, John reached forward to give Henry’s arm a gentle squeeze.

“Be careful,” he asked softly, before the younger man could say anything. “No catch in the world is worth your wellbeing.”

Henry responded with a smile that seemed resigned and faintly desperate, adding to John’s confusion.

“... I never had a chance, did I,” the young man said quietly, and before John could ask him what he was talking about, Henry’s lips were pressed to his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll notice that I kept some of Melville's original characters, because a whaler with only white men just ain't historically accurate


	3. Hornby's Dead

**PEGLAR**

  
  


Henry had only ever kissed Rose. He was used to smooth skin and soft, pliant lips. The first thing he noticed when he closed the gap to kiss the man he had loved for months was the roughness of his beard. The second thing he noticed was how much he loved it.

He could tell he’d caught John off-guard. That was why he wasn’t concerned at first when the man didn’t immediately kiss back. As more seconds passed, however, Henry’s heart sank. It was when he began pulling back that John grabbed him and kissed him  _ properly _ . Twenty seconds ago, Henry had thought he knew what kissing was. John Bridgens proved him wrong.

There was nothing pliant about his lips as he kissed Henry’s breath away. The passion in his actions made Henry’s knees weak. He could tell how much John wanted him, he could  _ taste  _ it in the kiss, and he wanted to show the older man that he was perfectly alright with that. Henry parted his lips and slid his tongue forward to brush against John’s mouth. His aim was slightly off, and he giggled when his tongue brushed against the end of John’s beard by the corner of his lips. He could feel John smile into the kiss, and the next moment, the older man’s hand was brushing through the hair at the back of his head. He let John move him slightly until the angle was right and gasped when their tongues met for the first time. The inside of John’s mouth was slick and warm, and Henry explored it so thoroughly that he felt like he would taste John on his tongue forever. Just as he was about to start his exploration all over again, John pulled back. His eyes were darker than usual and his lips were glistening. Henry could see that he was just as out of breath as him. As a matter of fact, their breaths matched each other, just as they had done that very first night, only this time, Henry couldn’t be further from sleep.

“John...” he whispered. There was so much he wanted to say. John held up a hand and shook his head.

“Later,” he said quietly. “You’re needed on deck.”

*

When Henry was rowing across the open sea on one of the whaling boats a little while later, he could think of nothing but the kiss.

They were going in the opposite direction of where the whale had last been seen, so he wasn’t expecting to actually find anything. He wagered neither were his crewmates or even first mate Hornby, who commanded the boat. Still, Henry enjoyed the sensation of the water so close and the repetitive labour of rowing gave his mind fuel to get thoroughly lost in thought.

He thought back to his and John’s first meeting at the inn.

Lying next to John Bridgens’ firm, tattooed body that night, he had fallen in lust. Sailing, laughing, learning and talking with him the past seven months, he had fallen in love. He didn’t know if that made him a sodomite and frankly, he didn’t care.

At some point during their trip in the boat, one of Henry’s fellow rowers started singing. The others soon joined, and the first mate let them, despite looking less than happy about it. For the first time in months, Henry remembered that this, this awful, harsh, familiar water land was still his home. The constant fear of the monster, the distrust among the crew, and the fresh horror of William Strong’s disappearance (death, he corrected himself mentally, he knew the boy couldn’t have possibly survived) all quietened down for a few, peaceful moments. He felt the wind in his hair, the salt on his lips and heard the sound of his crewmates singing a familiar tune. This was freedom. This was the sea.

A deafening scream interrupted the shanty. Henry looked up and found Mr. Hornby panting, looking as pale as if all the blood had left his body.

“Sir-” one of the sailors began, confused, but the first mate’s arm shot out, straight like an arrow, and pointed at something in the water.

Henry’s eyes followed the trembling, outstretched pointer finger of the mate, and saw William Strong’s face.

“Christ, it’s Billy!” one of the other rowers shouted. “Is he alive?”

“Go on, towards him, put your backs in it, lads!” the harpooneer Hartnell called, taking over command seeing as Hornby was still silent as the grave, and pale as a corpse.

“Help me lift him on board,” one of the men said, leaning over the edge of the boat once they were close enough. Henry moved to join him, when he noticed something, something that Hornby must have realised all along, and paled.

“Wait-” he said feebly, but the others were already lifting William Strong’s body into the boat.

William Strong’s bisected body. 

The harpooneer’s detached upper body fell onto the ground of the boat with a dull thud when the men dropped it in shock. Fleshy pink strips dangled from the lower end of it, and without looking too closely, Henry knew that they were the remnants of the man’s entrails hanging out from where he had been cut in half.  _ Bitten in half _ .

One of the men rushed to the edge of the boat to retch. Another fell to his knees in prayer.

Hornby was still standing at the bow of the boat, pale and shaking. Henry looked at him, and in the blink of an eye, the first mate’s body spasmed and collapsed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I am not sorry about the chapter title


	4. The Phantoms

**BRIDGENS**

  
  


John had spent the past hour pacing. Four of the six boats had returned. None of them had been Henry’s.

He couldn’t even bring himself to think about the kiss and its implications, the kiss and all the problems it brought, because for now, all that mattered was Henry’s safe return.

Seeing as the only people left on board were the shipkeepers – consisting of him and the other steward, Mr. Jopson, the carpenter, Thomas Honey, the blacksmith, Samuel Honey, the cook, Mr. Diggle, and the ship’s boys who’d stayed behind, Robert Golding and the young Pippin – John had next to nothing to do.

On past journeys, he’d spent his shipkeeping time teaching the ship’s boys, but Bobby Golding unsettled him and Pip was still far too young.

When he heard a commotion on deck, he hurried to see if Henry had finally returned.

He shouldn’t have been disappointed to see his own captain, but he was. Crozier and his special crew were climbing back on board with Samuel Honey’s help. With a single look at the captain, John could see that something was very, very wrong.

The man stormed leeward without a word and disappeared down the stairs to the officers’ cabins.

John’s confusion must have been plain on his features, because instead of retreating back to wherever they’d been hiding, the mystery crew remained on deck with him.

“It’s the damn boy,” Thomas Blanky said quietly. “Evans. We lost him.”

The steward looked at the boat and realised with a sinking feeling that it had indeed returned with one man missing.

“Strong, and now Evans,” John stated quietly. Blanky gave him a wry, mirthless smile.

“Two in one day. Just like old times, eh, Mr. Bridgens?” he said tiredly, his hand tapping against his pegleg, as if they couldn’t both vividly remember their last journey together.

“... Mr. Bridgens, how many bottles are left in the spirit room?”

John looked at the stranger in surprise. It was the man Captain Crozier had called Edward. Seeing as they’d never spoken before, John wondered how the man even knew his name.

“I’m afraid I can’t say for sure. You’d have to ask Mr. Hornby.”

The man gave a resigned nod and sighed, exchanging a look with Blanky. Blanky, to John’s surprise, then turned to introduce the two.

“Mr. Bridgens, this is Edward Little,” his old crew mate said, as casual as if the very existence of the man hadn’t been a mystery up until this morning.

The man, Little, seemed almost sheepish as he held out a hand. It did not fit in with John’s initial assessment of him. There was a sudden awkwardness to him, the same man he’d seen looking so authoritative hours prior.

His eyes, weary as they looked, were kind as he shook John’s hand.

“And that,” Blanky turned to the man who was still busy tying up the boat. When he looked up, John realised he wasn’t a man so much as a boy. He seemed almost as young as Henry, “is John Irving.”

Irving hurried to join them so he could shake John’s hand as well. He was the tallest of them, which surprised John. It was almost like seeing a child's innocent face and demeanour on a man’s body.

“I would have introduced myself sooner, but the captain thought it best to keep us separate from the crew,” Little said, once all the introductions were done.

“Aye, Francis thinks we have some rats among the men, and right he is too,” Blanky said, before patting John’s shoulder twice. “But we’ve nothing to fear from Mr. Bridgens here, he’s as honest as they come. I’d bet my leg on it,” Blanky said with a grin.

Before John could give a smile in response, he heard Tom Hartnell’s voice off in the distance and froze.

Hartnell had been on the same boat as Henry.

“Help!”

The shouts slowly grew louder, and when John ran to the railing along with the three other men, he could make out the sixth whaling boat. The first thing he saw, to his relief, was the familiar silhouette of Henry, alive and rowing.

“Is that-” Irving began to say, his soft voice apprehensive.

John studied the boat and saw what he was talking about.

Between the benches, there was a heap of something that looked like two bodies.

“Who was on that boat, Mr. Bridgens?” Little demanded, no trace of the sheepish man from earlier left.

“Thomas Hartnell,” John began, looking at the harpooneer who was still desperately flailing his arms. “Henry Peglar... Frederick Hornby, Alexander Wilson, William Gibson...” He furrowed his brow, trying to remember the remaining two men who were motionless on the boat's floor. As he was thinking, his gaze swept over the oarsmen again, and he realized something.

“There’s only _one_ living man missing,” he stated. He could feel Little’s quizzical eyes and responded before the man could talk. “Six men left on that boat. Now, there are five, and...”

“And two bodies,” Little finished, catching on. Then, he turned around to bark orders at the few men who were on deck, so that they were prepared to heave up the boat and recover the two bodies the moment Hartnell’s troupe reached them.

Most of the crew immediately crowded around the dead bodies once they were on deck. John, however, had something far more important to care about. Henry locked eyes with him the second he set foot on deck. He could see the dread in his young friend’s eyes as he approached and John opened his arms without thinking. Henry fell into them immediately and buried his face in John’s neck.

The steward was glad, in that moment, that the others were distracted, because while a simple hug was inconspicuous enough, the way the younger man nuzzled into his neck was not.

“Come on,” John murmured when he saw captain Crozier from the corner of his eye. “Let’s go to my cabin, and you can tell me what happened.”

Henry nodded and the two made their way to the officers’ cabins. Right at the end of the companionway, flanking the door to the captain’s quarters, were his and Jopson’s cabins. It wasn’t common for stewards on whalers to have their own cabins, but the Terror was big enough to allow for it.

John couldn’t help but glance at Hornby’s door when they walked past it. He hadn’t focused much on the commotion once he’d laid eyes on Henry, but he’d heard enough to know that Mr. Hornby was dead.

Three in one day. He remembered Blanky’s earlier words. Just like old times indeed.

  
  


He and Henry spent hours talking. Henry was, understandably, distraught. John tried his best to calm him down and, when that didn’t work, to distract him with stories about ancient Rome. No one came to fetch them for supper. John suspected the chaos outside was ongoing.

In spite of John’s best intentions, Henry spent the night in his cabin. The boy fell asleep in his berth, and John couldn’t bring himself to wake him, so instead, he slipped in beside him, like he had at the inn that seemed like a lifetime ago. The berth was even narrower than the bed in Mr. Wall’s inn had been.

On any other day, he would have done this with less apprehension, but a line had been crossed between them that day, and they hadn’t had a chance to talk about it. Despite his concerns, John slept deeply and soundly, with Henry’s warm, compact body pressed against his front.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peek the "The C, The C, The Open C" neck-nuzzle


	5. The Sea In His Eyes

**PEGLAR**

When Henry woke up, he didn’t realise where he was at first. He’d gotten so used to sleeping in a shaky hammock that the feeling of an actual mattress was virtually disorientating. The events of the day before slowly came back to him. First, William Strong and First Mate Hornby’s death. 

Then, the kiss. 

The only kiss that had ever felt truly right. The first kiss he’d ever shared with the man he loved.

They hadn’t talked about it, but part of him felt like maybe, they didn’t have to. There were things that were better shown in actions than described with words, and love was one such thing. Or perhaps, part of that thought process was wishful thinking. Perhaps he knew John well enough to realise something about the kiss, or rather, the moments right after, had been…off. 

But then why had he kissed back? Why had he pulled Henry back in? He’d already more or less broken the kiss, ready to apologise, when John had stopped him and kissed back.

Henry startled when a hand stroked along his arm gently. In his musings, he’d almost forgotten that the subject of his thoughts was lying right next to him.

“I can hear you thinking,” John said gently, voice rough from sleep.

Henry chuckled, albeit a bit nervously.

“Oh, really? What do you hear?” he asked, turning onto his side to face John. In the narrow bed, they were so close that their noses nearly touched. 

John studied him with those kind, intelligent eyes of his that felt more like home to Henry than even the sea ever had. 

Instead of replying, the older man raised his hand to cup the side of Henry’s face, and that was all Henry could take. He closed the gap between them to kiss John for the second time in his life, and it felt just as incredible as the first time had.

When he brushed his tongue against John’s lips this time, his aim was more secure, and the older man parted his lips for him immediately. He met Henry’s tongue with his own, and Henry couldn’t stop himself from making a soft sound. John caressed his tongue, his lips and the inside of his mouth in ways Rose never had, in ways that felt downright filthy, and Henry couldn’t get enough. When he shifted his head to deepen the kiss or to change the angle of it, he could feel his own beard rasping against John’s, and even though he liked having a beard, for a moment he found himself wishing he was still clean-shaven. He wanted to know what John’s beard would feel like on his naked skin. 

He wanted it scratching against his neck and his chest, and perhaps even lower.

In the narrow bed, it was impossible to hide the way his body was reacting. He hardened against John’s thigh and forced himself not to start rutting against it. He knew his cheeks were flushed in embarrassment, but when they finally broke the kiss, John mercifully made no comment on Henry’s arousal that he could surely feel poking his leg.

Instead, he looked at Henry seriously. The younger man frowned. It seemed they were going to talk about it after all.

“Henry-“ John began, and Henry immediately realised he could not just lie and listen. Whatever John had to say, he couldn’t take it without getting everything he felt off his chest first, so that maybe, John would change his mind about whatever he was about to tell him that had him looking so serious and troubled. 

“I’m not a child, John,” Henry interrupted very quickly, watching the way his friend’s brows went up in confusion. “Don’t tell me what I want, or don’t want. Please. Do me that courtesy. Trust in my ability to feel my own feelings.”

He took a deep breath and brought a hand up to rest on John’s chest. He still remembered the tattoos that were hidden beneath his shirt, even though he hadn’t laid eyes on them since that night at the inn.

“I love you dearly as a friend, you know that,” he continued. “But you’ve taught me things, John, more than you’re aware of. You’ve shown me things I didn’t understand before. Things that, if you ask our fellow sailors, should perhaps make me question my manhood… The only thing they make me question now is why the love Plato wrote about ever became something to be judged by others.”

“Henry,” John finally interrupted, gentle and patient as he always was. “You’re still young. You’ll fall in and out of love with many more people, people who will make your life a lot easier than an old sailor.”

Henry shook his head immediately, because he knew what John meant; he’d entertained the same thought many times in the past months.

“Love can't be easy, John. I loved Rose, you know I did, and you’re right, I might love a woman again one day. It would be easier to marry, to father some children, to settle down in a country house and grow old and fat as a reputable man… But that isn’t what I want,” he whispered. “That was never what I wanted. I don’t want the quiet green countryside, or the immaculate reputation. I want the  _ sea _ , John. I want the endless, beautiful blue sea. And I know it won’t always be still, I know there will be storms…But I’d prefer a stormy sea that I love to a quiet field that I never wanted.”

Henry fell quiet and stared at John. He felt as if he’d just rowed an entire whaling boat by himself; that was how out of breath he was after this passionate declaration. John didn’t say anything, and Henry began to feel desperate.

“I want the sea, John,” he said again. “I want the sea that’s in your eyes every time you look at me.” 

John gave him a soft smile. A smile that looked far too patronising and indulgent for Henry’s tastes.

“Henry, listen,” the older man said gently. “Love can be a beautiful thing, and a painful thing. An exciting thing, and a sickening thing. A divine and twisted thing. There is so much to love that you haven’t had the chance to experience. I’ve lived a life that you haven’t, dear Ganymede,” John remarked, with a gentle, fondly teasing smile. Henry huffed, but the hint of a blush stained his cheeks. 

“John,” he interrupted before the older man could say any more. “I may be young, and perhaps a reverist in a Stoic’s eyes, but I am not naïve.”

John smiled wryly, bringing a hand up to brush through Henry’s hair, and Henry couldn’t help the way his eyes fluttered shut at the gentle touch.

“I shouldn’t have taught you philosophy if you were going to use it against me one day.”

Henry frowned, opening his eyes again.

“But you are no Stoic, John.”

“…No. I am not,” Bridgens agreed, and Henry huffed, exasperated.

“Then why would you deny me my feelings?”

“That is not what I mean to do,” John responded, still calm but swifter than before. “I don’t want to deny you anything, Henry.”

The older man swallowed and Henry watched the way his Adam’s apple bobbed beneath the stubble of his beard. Then, he looked up again and gazed into John’s eyes. Into the beautiful, dark depth of the sea.

“Don’t you love me?” he asked, very quietly. There was no true uncertainty in his voice. He knew John loved him, as certainly as he knew he loved John.

The older man held his gaze for a long, uninterrupted moment that was accompanied only by the creaking of wood, the gentle hiss of the sea, and their own soft breaths.

When he moved in to kiss Henry, it was the only answer he needed and the only one that made sense to them both. Unlike their hungry, desperate kisses from before, this one was slow, gentle and sensual, and Henry had never had one like it either. His stomach filled with dancing butterflies when he thought of all the firsts he’d be able to have with John. And the ones he’d already had with him, like reading the Iliad or writing a poem. 

Henry dared to deepen the kiss, sliding the hand that was still resting on John’s chest across his thin nightshirt. Just as he was about to break the kiss to ask John if he could see his tattoos again, a cry from outside startled them apart.

“All hands on deck!” 

Henry sighed softly, but he wasn’t fully disappointed. He knew that he and John had the entire rest of the journey – perhaps the entire rest of their lives – to explore one another. Besides, as scary as the beast stalking them was, other events on the ship always excited him. Even the gruesome butchering of the caught whales had intrigued him at first, but he’d quickly decided that, unless he was asked to help with it, it wasn’t something he wanted to be present for again. 

He got out of John’s bunk and extended his hand to help the older man up. When he got on his tiptoes to try and steal another kiss, John denied him with a firm hand on his chest and a gentle, yet reprimanding look. 

“All hands on deck, Henry,” he repeated, taking Henry by the shoulders and turning him toward the door.

Henry huffed, pulling a face at John over his shoulder.

“Stoic…” he muttered, before leaving the cabin with a smile on his features.


	6. The Gam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now's probably a good time to mention that I borrow more heavily from the book than the show for the characterisation of certain cold bois...  
> (Des Voeux and Golding, mostly)

**BRIDGENS**

When he stepped on deck, the first thing John noticed was that all men were facing starboard. For a terrifying second, he feared they were looking at another body in the water, but when he followed their gazes, he was relieved to see a ship. He could make out two figures standing at the railing, waving at the Terror.

“What’s going on?” Henry asked John uncertainly. They hadn’t encountered anything like this in the months they’d been sailing. John smiled, taking Henry by the elbow gently to pull him out of the way of Edward Little, who stepped up to the railing. The men immediately made room for him, and John wondered if it was out of respect or out of lingering unease about the captain’s phantom harpooneer.

“A gam,” John answered Henry, watching as Little borrowed a brass telescope from the man Blanky had introduced as Irving, who’d joined him by the railing. John couldn’t help but notice the distinct absence of their captain. “When two whalers meet at sea, they hail one another for a social gathering. The two captains have a meal on one ship while the two chief mates meet on the other.”

Henry frowned. 

“But our chief mate – Mr. Hornby-“

“Yes,” John said with a sad smile. “And our captain remains nowhere to be seen. I don’t think this will be a regular gam, Henry.”

Just then, Little lowered the telescope and turned to say something to Irving. John was standing close enough and had had enough experience as a steward to sharpen his ears, so he could hear the harpooneer’s pensive words, though he wasn’t sure he understood them.

“He was right. It is the Erebus.” John couldn’t see Irving’s reaction, and Little didn’t seem to wait for it either, because he turned towards the other ship again. The ship,  _ Erebus _ , looked a lot worse for wear. As John let his gaze travel across the torn sails and splintered wood of the other whaler, he considered it a miracle she was still afloat. Irving handed Little the ship’s trumpet and the harpooneer held it to his lips to hail the half-wrecked ship.

“Ahoy there, Erebus!” He exchanged a glance with Irving, who looked back in the direction of the captain’s quarters. Little then added: “Have you seen the white whale?”

One of the two men on the other ship held his own trumpet up.

“More than seen,” the man called sharply. “The beast killed half our men.”

“Did you not pursue it?” Little asked diplomatically.

“Pursue it? Are you mad? With half our crew gone?”

Little and Irving exchanged another look.

“Is that the Terror you’re hailing from?” the man on the Erebus asked. The ship had gotten closer, and John could make out the two men more clearly. The one holding the trumpet was short and had a feisty energy to him, like a crackling fire barely contained in his body. His eyes, from a distance, looked as black as his dishevelled hair, but his face was soft and smooth like a boy's. The other man was tall and held himself with elegant pride, his back straight and his head tipped up ever so slightly. His hair seemed entirely untouched by the wind and the rough, salty air. It looked as fresh and soft as if he’d just stepped into an opera house on the mainland. There was something about the man that seemed out of place on a whaler. His poise and looks reminded John more of French noblemen than experienced sailors.

“Aye,” the Terror’s chief harpooneer called back. “Captained by Francis Crozier.”

The shorter man lowered his trumpet. John saw him turn to the taller one and watched them exchange some brief words before the man lifted the ship’s trumpet to his lips again.

“Tell Captain Crozier that Captain Fitzjames wishes to confer with him.”

John could almost  _ hear  _ Little’s deep inhale at that, and he realised it was no coincidence that their captain wasn’t here for this gam. What he didn’t know was  _ why. _

“…And is it Captain Fitzjames to whom I’m speaking?” the harpooneer asked. There was a brief pause from the other ship.

“You’re speaking to First Mate Des Voeux. Now would you  _ please  _ invite us aboard, so I can get out of this dirty scrape?!”

John would have expected a man like the phantom Edward Little to react with disapproval to such saucy words, perhaps even aggressive command. Instead, he was surprised to see the weary harpooneer’s face soften into something almost resembling a smirk.

“Anything to oblige such a sweet and pleasant fellow,” Little called back. 

When Little handed Irving the trumpet, Irving was frowning at him.

"Are you sure about this?”

“They encountered the white whale,” Little replied, his voice quiet as the two walked past John and Henry to prepare one of the ladders. “He told me to get information on its whereabouts at  _ any _ cost.”

Henry seemed distracted by Blanky - who’d watched in grim silence until then - turning on his heel and taking off towards the officers’ quarters, presumably to tell their captain the news.

John put a hand on his friend’s arm to get his attention.

“Watch,” he murmured, nudging Henry towards a free spot at the railing so the young man could observe their fellow whalers prepare for the gam. Once Henry was distracted and immersed in this new experience, John turned away to look aft where the ladder to the officers’ quarters emerged.

Captain Crozier didn’t appear until the men from the Erebus had almost made it across.

The Captain stood in the middle of the deck with his arms crossed behind his back and his eyes narrowed sharply. To his right stood Edward Little with such a worried expression on his features that it awoke the instinct to comfort the man in John.

The first man to climb aboard was the first mate. He stepped aside to make room for Captain Fitzjames, who followed immediately after. Up close, the man somehow looked even more delicate, and yet, at the same time, there was a kind of steel in his gaze John hadn’t noticed before.

When the two Captains met each other’s gaze, the temperature on deck seemed to drop all at once, as if they were sailing somewhere in the Arctic, rather than near Nantucket.

John saw a muscle twitch in Captain Crozier’s jaw. 

“Francis.” It was the Erebus’ captain who finally broke the silence with a cool, stilted greeting.

Crozier’s lips thinned as if he were physically trying to keep his words from escaping.

“James,” he finally said, and if the other man’s voice had been cool, Crozier’s was so heated John could have sworn he saw the ship’s boy Pip wince in the background. The steward couldn’t blame him. If there was one word to describe their captain, it was ‘unpredictable’, and John had no idea what to make of the fact that the captains seemed to have history.

“You’ve seen the whale?!” Crozier snapped without exchanging any further pleasantries. Fitzjames gave an arrogant scoff.

“Oh, I see you haven’t changed… You never did have the time for formalities. If you were a proper captain, with proper etiquette, you’d invite your guest to a meal in your quarters -” Fitzjames said, his voice continuously rising, because Captain Crozier had started scoffing and huffing.

“I don’t give a  _ damn  _ about your etiquette, James,” the older captain snapped, cutting Fitzjames off. “If you can’t tell me anything useful, I’ll toss you back overboard myself.”

Fitzjames’ jaw twitched this time, but he didn’t jump to the bait again. Instead, he took a step back and nodded at his first mate, all without taking his haughty gaze off of Crozier.

“Mr. Des Voeux.”

If the first mate felt betrayed by essentially being thrown to the sharks by his captain, he didn’t let it show. In fact, he seemed almost eager to rise to the challenge.

“We were about 100 miles south of the Chester Peninsula. First harpooneer Gore spotted the white whale, but we’d heard the stories, so we steered leeward to get away from the beast.”

Here, Des Voeux paused and his throat gave a barely perceptible jump as he swallowed. John knew too well the horrors the young man must have witnessed, but his resolve didn’t falter any more than that.

“It followed us and attacked. The harpooneers tried to fight it off with their harpoons, but that only seemed to anger it. Us mates wounded it with our lances, but I very much doubt we even managed to weaken it…”

“Yes, Mr. Des Voeux, the white whale can’t be killed with lances,” Crozier interrupted, almost scolding. “Did you see how much metal is sticking out of the rotten thing?! Greater men than us have tried to beat it, and paid the price for it,” the captain continued bitterly.

“So why are  _ you _ still chasing it, Francis?” Fitzjames interrupted, his voice cool and dismissive again.

“Because  _ I _ ,” the captain shot back, spinning to sneer at Fitzjames, “have been chasing this blasted whale for years, and I will keep chasing it until I’ve avenged my dead men. I may not be a  _ proper  _ captain, James, with  _ proper etiquette, _ ” Crozier taunted bitterly, “but I  _ keep  _ my promises, and I’ve not yet lost my honour.”

Fitzjames huffed an airy laugh. “You’ve been hiding it well, then.”

Crozier looked like he may have well been about to explode, but he wasted no more words on the other captain and turned to the shorter man again.

“You’re a first mate, yes?” he asked Des Voeux brusquely.

“Aye, sir.”

“Not a very experienced one,” the captain added. “You’re just a lad.”

John could see the barely contained, fiery zest of the mate flash up in his eyes briefly, but the man remained respectful.

“Aye.” 

“Well, Mr. Des Voeux,” Crozier continued with a sigh, “it just so happens that I lost my first mate yesterday. I need someone to command the boats and lances… Welcome aboard the Terror.”

Des Voeux didn’t seem very pleased about this turn of events. Without looking back at his own commander, he took a step forward.

“With respect, sir,” the mate began. John’s eyes were drawn to the harpooneer by Crozier’s side. Little looked downright panicked, and considering the explosive temper their captain had shown in the past when it came to his inferiors questioning him, he could understand why.

“I shipped to hunt whales,” Des Voeux continued, “to make a profit and send oil back home… Not for a lone man's vengeance.”

Crozier’s fists clenched. John could see a vein popping out by his temple. “Mate,” the captain said acidly, “That whale is an inscrutable malice to every sailor like you and me. You don’t think vengeance is good enough? That beast killed my men, and I’ll hunt it for any reason I damn well please. I'd strike the  _ sun  _ if it insulted me, Mr. Des Voeux.”

“And how many barrels will your vengeance get us?” the mate asked dryly. John studied his face and thought that he had never seen so much tireless stubbornness in one place before. “If we even catch the whale, that is.”

“Charles,” Captain Fitzjames said before Crozier could react, his voice firm but not unkind. “Stand down.”

Des Voeux kept his chin up and the brash gleam didn’t leave his eyes, but he stepped back all the same. “Aye, captain.”

“There is only  _ one  _ captain on the Terror,” Crozier growled at both men.

“Francis…” Fitzjames sounded more civil than he had before, though still far from friendly. His voice seemed like the metaphorical olive branch all the same. “We have a woman on board who has…stories about the white whale.”

“Stories?” Edward Little questioned.

“…Knowledge,” Fitzjames said, glancing at the harpooneer, but his eyes found the captain again soon. “She doesn’t speak English, but our doctor is familiar enough with her language to translate,” the captain continued, before finally coming forward with the true reason for their gam. “… The Erebus is damaged, and most of our supplies got destroyed in the whale’s attack. We  _ might _ make it to the mainland, but even then my men would still be many miles away from their homes and their families… I don’t think I’m asking too much if I request you take us back to England with you.”

“I’m not going back to England until I’ve caught the whale, James,” Crozier responded, unshaken.

Fitzjames’ jaw clenched, and he looked like he very much wanted to argue again, but looking at the Erebus, John couldn’t help but think that the captain didn’t have much of a choice. Fitzjames seemed to realise that as well, for he nodded tensely after a moment.

“Charles. Go back to the boat and fetch the others,” the captain said and the reluctance was as audible in his voice as it was in Des Voeux’s movements as he descended the ladder. 

“The woman and the doctor first,” Crozier called after the first mate. 

John might not have known Charles Des Voeux for long, but he could imagine the young man grimaced at the captain’s order down in his boat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the moment everyone has been waiting for!!! Charles Des Voeux is here!  
> (me, I'm everyone)


	7. The Erebus

**PEGLAR**

Henry had never experienced a gam before, but it didn’t take a genius to see that this was truly not the way it usually went.

He was surprised that Crozier and the new captain seemed to know each other, but he wasn’t surprised that Crozier treated him with such hostility. Even though in his own few, very brief interactions with Crozier, the man had always been civil, if not to say nice, Henry was well aware how their captain treated most others, including his own dear John Bridgens. 

Part of him had expected the two captains to continue bickering while the first mate got the rest of the Erebites, but after Crozier brusquely informed Fitzjames that he could only house him in their sick room, since Des Voeux would get late First Mate Hornby’s cabin, the icy silence from earlier returned. Most of the crew, Henry included, wondered if they were dismissed or if they’d have to linger on deck in this stiflingly tense atmosphere. No one dared to ask, so the entire deck remained dead silent as they waited for Des Voeux’s boat to return. 

Henry stepped further away from the men to stand at the stern of the ship, watching the Erebus and its crew as they bid their home goodbye. He lingered there even as the boat crossed.

When Des Voeux and his men climbed aboard, Henry quietly returned to John’s side to study the newcomers. 

Seven Erebites now stood on deck, including Fitzjames and First Mate Des Voeux. Henry’s focus was immediately drawn to the woman. She looked Native, he thought, like Tashtego, and yet different. Henry wondered where she was from. 

The Terror crew consisted of people from all over the world, even places Henry had never heard of. John had explained to him that this was the case on every whaler. Unlike the Royal Navy or common trade ships, whaling captains picked up hands wherever they could find them. Some, like Tashtego or Daggoo, were skilled harpooneers, which put them higher in the ship’s hierarchy than the white English foremast hands, others had even advanced to the ranks of mates or captains due to their whaling experience.

Captain Crozier stepped up to the small group, and Henry realised Des Voeux hadn’t left again, meaning these seven people were all that was left of the Erebus’ crew. He paled at the thought, and he let his hand brush against John’s without thinking. If they kept chasing the whale, would the same fate befall them? John had told him about his and Crozier’s first encounter with the beast – fifteen out of forty men left alive. For the first time since the start of their journey, Henry became fully aware of his own mortality, and worse yet, John’s mortality. 

He didn’t know if the steward could read his thoughts or if he returned the gesture for simpler reasons, but he felt the older man’s hand nudge his own. For a blissful moment, the back of John’s hand rested against Henry’s, and he felt the steward’s calloused index finger lightly trail up the side of his. At first, the touch had soothed Henry. Now, it excited him more than it should have in the middle of a crowd. 

John withdrew his hand the next moment and Henry let out a quiet breath before letting his focus return to the captain and the two sailors he was addressing.

“Captain Crozier,” the doctor greeted, and Henry wasn’t quite able to discern the emotion in his voice.

Crozier remained entirely stoic. His eyes were studying the native woman warily before he cast them on the doctor. “Doctor…?”

“Goodsir,” the man provided quickly, turning to the woman afterwards and gesturing at the captain. “Crozier,” he said to her, his voice a lot softer than it had been when he’d been speaking to the man in question. The woman gave the hint of a nod, and her eyes bore into the captain with an almost eerie calm. 

“Silna,” she said finally, and Henry had trouble placing her accent. It certainly didn’t sound like Tashtego’s, or any other sailor’s on the Terror.

“She claims to be a harpooneer,” Des Voeux added. The woman didn’t acknowledge him, but Goodsir turned to the first mate with a slight frown that seemed to disapprove of the man’s words and apologise for said disapproval at the same time. 

“She  _ is _ a harpooneer, Mr. Des Voeux,” Goodsir corrected. 

The first mate arched a brow but didn't comment any further. Henry couldn’t entirely blame him. The mate’s disbelief was understandable, as was the murmur that went through the crowd of sailors. There were stories about seamen considering it bad luck to have a woman aboard, but most whalers were used to it. It was common for captains’ wives to come along on a whaling journey to act as a nurse for the sick or injured sailors, but Henry had never heard of a female harpooneer before and neither had any of the other men. 

Crozier seemed to take it in stride, or perhaps he simply didn’t care. Perhaps he’d lost the ability to care about anything but whiskey and the white whale. 

“What do you know about the whale?” he asked, addressing Silna directly. Goodsir quietly murmured to her in some other tongue that sounded completely alien to Henry.

Silna’s eyes remained on the captain, unreadable and almost unblinking. When she spoke, she said only one word. 

“Tuunbaq.”

The word seemed to cast a shadow on the deck, swallowing up one man after the other. Henry felt his blood run cold and had no explanation as to why. The crew were staring at the woman with a wild array of different emotions on their features, one stronger than the other. Strangely, there seemed to be an absence of confusion, even though Henry was certain none of the other men had heard the mysterious word before, not even John. Henry looked at the men and realised they felt as he did. He didn’t understand the word, but it had awoken some sort of primal terror in him, like an unseen, unknown horror that had been hidden inside man’s very nature since the beginning of time.

Goodsir glanced around at the emotive crowd of sailors and frowned ever so slightly.

“Captain Crozier,” the doctor said. “Captain Fitzjames… Perhaps it would be better to have this conversation…somewhere more quiet.”

Fitzjames didn’t deign to look at the crew before nodding. “I agree,” he said. “And while we’re discussing, we may as well have that meal you never proposed, Francis,” the lean captain said snidely. He didn’t wait for Crozier’s reaction and turned to face the Terrors. “Stewards?” he called. 

John stepped forward first. Thomas Jopson directed a long, uncertain glance at Crozier, who stared back before finally giving a very slight nod. Only then did Jopson join John’s side.

“See to it that an early supper for Captain Crozier, Dr. Goodsir, Lady Silna and myself is prepared.”

“Aye, captain,” John said, and Henry could sense his friend’s pleasant surprise when the evidently proud captain smiled at him.

“Aye, sir,” said Jopson, ever loyal to Crozier, though Fitzjames seemed to take no note of it.

John managed to steal a glance at Henry before he and Jopson headed down towards the galley. Henry smiled at him and thought of the sensation of John’s lips on his. He hoped John was thinking the same. 

“Edward,” Crozier called out, drawing Henry’s attention once the stewards had disappeared.

Little was already standing at attention – had been throughout the whole exchange, if Henry recalled correctly – and looked at his captain.

“You’re in charge. Get our new men settled in and then get this damned ship moving again. Mr. Des Voeux, assist him.”

“Sir,” Des Voeux said quickly, addressing Fitzjames. “Are we to…abandon Erebus as she is? Sail away and leave her behind?”

Fitzjames eyes softened slightly, but Henry could pinpoint the moment the captain steeled himself again.

“She will sink soon enough, Mr. Des Voeux. There is nothing else we can do.”

With that, the two captains left along with their two strange new guests.

The deck remained quiet for a few sombre moments before Little turned to Des Voeux, whose eyebrow was lifted in a caustic, almost annoyed way again, which Henry assumed by now was just the man’s standard expression. 

“Mr. Des Voeux,” Little said. “They’re your men. I wouldn’t presume to command them. There should be enough room in the crew’s lodgings,” he stated, letting his gaze sweep over the Erebites that had remained on deck. Des Voeux, of course, would be taking Hornby’s cabin, but the remaining men would have to fashion new hammocks. 

Des Voeux gazed at Little for a moment before straightening and turning to shout at his crew. Experienced or not, Henry noted that Des Voeux was certainly efficient. Soon, the Erebites had disappeared down the main hatch with what they needed for their new lodgings, and Little had ordered a few of the Terrors to weigh anchor and open the sails.

The remaining men made their way to the mess, presumably to get to know their new shipmates as they waited for supper. A few hands that had been stationed on deck earlier remained, scrubbing the floors and watching for whales, but Henry decided to linger as well.

Des Voeux had walked up to the railing and was watching the Erebus slowly shrink into the distance as the Terror sailed on. Henry followed his gaze and got lost in thought for a moment, which was why he didn’t notice that the harpooneer Little had joined Des Voeux until the men began talking.

“Please, don’t harden yourself on my account.” Henry could barely make out the harpooneer’s words, so quiet was his voice. “I won’t judge you for tears shed over losing your ship.”

It was only then that Henry noticed the first mate’s eyes looked red and glassy, and he quickly averted his gaze back to the sea before he could be caught staring.

“…I sailed on her for nearly six years,” Des Voeux responded after a long silence. Henry was surprised to hear the seemingly so snarky mate sound so sincere. He couldn’t help but glance at the two men again, and was faced with the back of Des Voeux’s head. The mate had turned towards the harpooneer entirely, which made it considerably easier for the curious young man to observe their conversation. “She was as good a home to me as any,” Des Voeux said.

What Henry could see of Little’s mouth turned up slightly in what looked like a melancholic smile.

“What was your home before that?” Henry heard the harpooneer ask. When Des Voeux responded, he was sure he could hear a smile in his voice too.

At this moment, Henry decided to give the two men their privacy, and went to see if John had returned from serving the captains their supper yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Ireland. CDV's home was Ireland)  
> (his great-grandad was french)


	8. Tuunbaq

**BRIDGENS**

John didn’t fancy himself a nosey man, but being a steward, overhearing things he wasn’t meant to know was simply something he couldn’t avoid. He hadn’t particularly cared in the past, but on this journey, he’d started paying close attention. Not to sate his own curiosity, but to be informed about the captain’s plans so he could protect Henry from whatever was to come in any way he could.

This supper, he knew, was by far the most important he’d witnessed in all his months on the Terror, and he considered himself lucky that Fitzjames had specifically commanded both him and Jopson to serve it. Usually, Captain Crozier would only allow Jopson to be present during the most sensitive discussions, but tonight, he seemed far too preoccupied with the Native woman’s knowledge to care that John was here. 

Mr. Diggle, the ship’s cook, had been rather disgruntled about having to produce an unexpected ‘early supper’, but John suspected the presence of the beautiful Native woman had put him in better spirits.

John stood in the corner of the great cabin, invisible as stewards were, filling up the porcelain jug for more servings of tea – while Jopson filled up the decanter with what looked like whiskey for the captain. John noticed a small frown on the other steward’s features. Jopson hadn’t been part of the last journey John had been on with Crozier, but that had been a while ago, and the man’s obvious concern made John wonder just how long he’d been the captain’s personal steward.

At the table, Silna was talking in a slow but urgent manner, and all three men were staring at her while the doctor did his best to translate. A bit jumbled, John realised, noticing the crease of confusion on the man’s forehead and the way he sometimes paused to search for words. 

“She… She says the white whale isn’t an animal.” He paused, asking the woman something, to which she seemed to repeat what she’d said before. “She says there’s, well, I suppose I'd call it.... _malignity_ in it… Unexampled, ineffable malignity.”

The woman interrupted the doctor to utter something to him that, to John’s ears, sounded like it must have been unquestionably important. The doctor frowned and responded to her in the same language, his tone uncertain and anxious.

“What?” Crozier snapped after a few more moments of this, cutting the exchange short. “What is she saying?”

The doctor turned back towards the captains, and his frown was even deeper than before. “She says that the whale’s attacks are…intelligent.”

“Intelligent?” Fitzjames questioned.

“Yes, Captain,” Goodsir replied, looking at the man with deeply disturbed eyes. “…Deliberate… Wilful.”

“Are you saying…” Fitzjames began, his voice a little derisive, “that this _whale_ is evil?” 

“Don’t be cynical,” Crozier huffed, without looking at the other captain. “You haven’t seen what I’ve seen, James.”

Fitzjames’ head whipped around to glare at Crozier.

“The whale took my crew, Franc-“

“Yes, and it took a hell of a lot more from me!” Crozier barked, slamming his fist down on the table. For a moment the room was quiet, the two captains staring at each other at an impasse. Fitzjames’ jaw clenched as he swallowed and finally looked away. For a few beats, John could have sworn he saw genuine hurt in the man’s eyes.

Doctor Goodsir cleared his throat meekly to regain the captains’ attention.

“She also says the whale can’t be killed.”

The silence that befell the room after that felt as stifling and deadly as the words had been.

It was in that silence that Fitzjames spoke up with an unusually earnest quality to his voice.

“Stop this madness, Francis. Don’t risk your whole crew a second time.”

Crozier huffed at this and turned to Goodsir. “If it bleeds, it can be killed. I’ll hunt it down just to prove that.”

“Please, Francis,” Fitzjames huffed sharply. “What makes you think you, of all people, will kill that beast? You’ve tried before, and you _failed._ And at least back then you weren’t…”

Fitzjames trailed off rather abruptly, his jaw clenching again.

“I wasn’t _what_ , James?” Crozier challenged with barely contained anger in his voice. “Tell me what I _wasn’t_.” He sounded almost taunting, as if he didn’t believe Fitzjames would actually say the words. 

The younger captain looked up and proved him wrong, though his voice wasn’t sneering or triumphant. For the first time, John heard the pompous man’s voice sound soft.

“A drunk.”

The room filled with tension so thick John barely dared to breathe. Then, for reasons he couldn’t understand, said tension seemed to drain out of Crozier all at once.

“Mr. Bridgens, Doctor Goodsir, leave us,” Crozier said, without looking up at them. “The girl too.”

The captain was staring only at Fitzjames, though for once, John could see no hostility in his eyes. He paused briefly before nodding his compliance. Being a steward, he waited for the doctor and the woman to reach the door, holding it open for them before following after.

Just before he could close the door behind himself and leave Jopson, Fitzjames and Crozier to themselves, the latter called out to him again.

“And tell Mr. Little to come down here.”


	9. Ganymede And The Sphinx

**PEGLAR**

Henry lamented the fact that John’s cabin wasn’t big enough to pace. He didn’t know how long he’d been waiting, and he felt bad about his impatience, but after what their gam had interrupted, he was _more_ than ready to spend another night in John’s cabin.

His longing memories of John’s lips were cut short when the door to the cabin opened and his friend came in. He seemed a little surprised to see Henry waiting for him, but no less pleased.

Henry smiled brightly, but John’s responding smile was weaker than usual. Henry reached out for him and pulled him down onto his berth, sitting close by his side.

“What is it?” the young man asked quietly. “What did they talk about?”

John sighed and reached for Henry’s hand, which the younger man eagerly offered. He suppressed a shiver when John intertwined their fingers, their palms resting flat against one another. The firm press of John’s fingers in between his own felt intimate, and as if reading Henry’s mind, the older man began stroking his index finger again like he had earlier. 

“The new harpooneer seems to think that the whale can’t be killed,” John said eventually. Henry took a moment to think about the implications of that, and then another moment to bring John’s hand up to his lips and brush a soft kiss against the back of it. 

“… Do you think she’s right?” he asked John, his lips still brushing his hand. His friend looked at him and gave him a slightly tired but sincere smile.

“Do I think that the whale is some mystical, immortal being?” John echoed back at Henry, shaking his head as he did. “No. No, I don’t… But I do think that maybe… mankind hasn’t invented a weapon yet that can kill this particular beast.”

Henry gave a thoughtful hum and trailed his lips down to John’s wrist.

“Is it different from a regular whale then, do you think?” he mused. “Thicker skin? More endurance?”

“I don’t know,” John confessed, watching him closely as he ran his lips back up to his fingers. “The woman also said its attacks are deliberate - those of an intelligent being, not a wild animal.” 

That was enough to make Henry pause for a moment.

“… A premeditative whale?” he asked, puzzled. “Is that possible?”

“Perhaps,” John responded. “We can’t be sure what is hiding in the depths of the ocean. There could be several species we don’t even know about.”

Henry frowned slightly. As much as he loved the ocean – for its quality of being so unknowable, among other things – the thought of other monsters like this creature, this _Tuunbaq,_ living below their feet wasn’t a comforting one.

"If we don't even know the nature of this whale, how should we understand its head?" Henry muttered thoughtfully.

John smiled softly at that, the smile he sometimes got during their conversations that Henry had learned meant something he said had surprised the steward. 

After a moment, he brought his lips back to John’s hand, partially to distract himself, partially because he’d had multiple reasons for coming here, and talking about the whale was just one of them.

He let his lips brush against John’s knuckles and up his fingers to let himself feel the rough, scarred skin of a man who’d lived a long life at sea. When he reached John’s fingertips, he shifted his own hand to slip his fingers beneath John’s and used them to lift the steward’s fingers until they were straight. He studied the older man’s hand in its entirety for a moment. He’d seen it thumb through books, carry trays, grip ropes, but he’d never had the chance to study it like this. Intimately. John’s veins stood out a little more than Henry’s, perhaps a testament to his age, and Henry found himself fascinated by them, bringing his lips down again to trace them with the most delicate touch. He kept going until he reached John’s fingertips once more. This time, he didn’t pull away. This time, he parted his lips, shy and uncertain, and took the tip of John’s index finger into his mouth. 

When he looked up, his friend was watching him with impossibly dark eyes and a kind of intensity that made Henry blush. He dared to shift a little lower, to let more of John’s finger disappear between his lips until he met it with his tongue. Just as he began to curiously explore the new feeling of John’s skin against his tongue, John pulled away.

Henry couldn’t stop himself from making a soft, quizzical, if not to say disappointed, sound and sat up straight. He barely noticed how out of breath he was and instead focused on John, frowning deeply.

John held his gaze only for a moment before looking away with a sigh.

“… What do you know about Cornelius Hickey, Henry?” he asked, and Henry’s frown turned into a look of pure confusion.

“…I know that people say he’s a cannibal… Personally, I think he’s less than trustworthy at best and a would-be mutineer at worst.”

“He is that,” John agreed quietly, glancing up at the door as if he expected the harpooneer to be right outside. “… I’ve known _of_ him for years,” he began, turning his gaze to Henry again. “Do you know he is a sodomite?”

Henry arched a brow, surprised. He shook his head no, but he also couldn’t see how that fact was relevant to them. Before he could ask, John continued.

“He’s known to prey on young men during long voyages… turning them into little more than slaves for his needs.”

Henry’s thoughts immediately went to Bobby Golding, the older ship’s boy who seemed to spend a lot of time with Hickey. Henry knew that Pip was _terrified_ of the twenty-year-old however, so Henry doubted if Hickey was preying on Golding, or if he just saw him as a useful co-conspirator. 

Either way, it still didn’t explain why John had chosen to bring up this subject now, of all times.

“John, you know I adore our conversations, but… I was hoping to - …Tonight…” Henry tried.

John gave a weary sigh at that and nodded slightly. 

“I know,” he stated softly. “That’s why I’m telling you this… Everybody knows I am a sodomite, Henry, but there’s something else that they know, something that is important to me.”

Henry shifted on the bed so he could face John more comfortably. He wanted to reach out and touch him, but given how apprehensive John seemed, he thought better of it.

“There are two kinds of sodomites at sea,” John began. “There’s men like Hickey – men who use their preferences to their advantage on these long, lonely journeys amongst other men. You’d be surprised how many good, Christian husbands and fathers bend to sodomites like him just to get the physical contact they’ve been starved of. Hickey is even worse than that, preying on younger, more impressionable men… My point is, I keep my…activities ashore, for this exact reason. I refuse to use my tastes to my advantage on a journey like this.”

When Henry finally understood the man’s point, he huffed.

“But you’re not,” he pointed out. “ _I_ came to _you,_ John… And you should know that I didn’t say what I said, and do what I did, in hopes of getting some sort of physical relief at sea.”

“I know,” John said very quickly, gentle but firm. “Of course I know that, Henry. But you must understand… This is a principle I’ve always stood by. I’ve never engaged in anything physical at sea.”

Henry studied his friend for a long moment. John could read him like a book, he knew that, but he hoped his friend couldn’t follow all the rapid thoughts and emotions rushing over him, because he could barely follow them himself.

The sea in John’s eyes was still, and beautiful, and Henry made a decision.

He stood up and stepped in front of where John sat on the berth, gazing down at him. “But you’ve never been in love at sea.”

John gazed up at him and for a long moment, he didn’t move. Henry stood as still as he could manage, barely daring to breathe.

When his friend moved again, it was to reach up and take Henry by the hips. Henry’s throat went dry and he followed, more than willingly, when John tugged him down into his lap. Once Henry was straddling him on the bed, the two shared a long look, before Henry started smiling, wide and honest. With that, John moved in to kiss him. As if he was scared John would change his mind and push him away after all, Henry deepened the kiss far too soon, but John took it in stride and slid his hands up Henry’s back in a calming manner. It was that which convinced Henry his friend wouldn’t reject him. It gave him the courage to break the kiss, no longer afraid that John would deny him again. He shared a heavy breath with John and smiled when he felt the older man’s hand slide up the back of his neck into his hair. 

“John,” Henry whispered, sitting up slightly and biting his lip. John’s eyes followed the movement and Henry shivered when he recognised the hunger in his eyes. “… Will you show me your tattoos?” he asked quietly and smiled when John looked into his eyes again.

“… I will,” John promised quietly. “But you have to do something for me first.”

Henry swallowed at the steward’s tone of voice. It sounded transformed, lower and somehow more intense – still gentle but also guiding, _commanding._

“Undress yourself for me, Henry.”

Henry’s eyes widened, but he didn’t have to be told twice. He shifted off of John’s lap and hurried to take off his shirt and dropped it on the ground carelessly – he’d have to get changed into his nightshirt later anyway. When he immediately looked down to work on the fastenings of his trousers, John stopped him with a gentle laugh.

Henry looked down at him quizzically, and John took his hand, bringing it up to press a kiss to it.

“Slowly, my love,” John whispered, a loving glint in his eyes. “Let me see you.”

Henry huffed a breathless laugh and tried to fight his blush. When he felt John’s heady gaze traveling across his bare torso, he swallowed and straightened his back. He felt utterly on display. John’s eyes caressed him everywhere, so thoroughly that Henry wouldn’t have been surprised to learn the older man was counting the freckles on his arms and his chest. 

The whale might not have been mystical, but there had to be something mystical about John’s gaze, because Henry could swear he felt a hot stream following it across his skin. When that heat seemed to hit and linger on his nipples, he couldn’t hold in his whimper. John studied his chest for a while. Henry’s arousal was straining in his trousers once again, and part of him wished John’s eyes would travel lower to caress it with the same intensity he had the rest of him.

“John,” Henry whispered, when he suddenly noticed the way his friend’s hands were clenched by his sides, grasping the thin sheets of the bed as if holding himself back from reaching out. Henry stepped closer and shifted to sit on John’s lap again, smiling down at him sweetly. “You can touch me, you know.”

John let out a quiet laugh that sounded a little hoarse.

“ _Godlike Ganymedes that was born the fairest of mortal men_ ,” John quoted softly, as he put his hands on Henry’s bare skin for the first time.

The younger man’s breath caught in his throat as he felt the steward’s hands stroke up his sides to the top of his ribcage and back down to his hips.

“Planning to steal me away to have me dwell with the immortals?” Henry chuckled with a distinct blush. 

John smiled, running his hands up Henry’s sides again, though this time, he brought them around to his front and gently rubbed the flat of his palms across Henry’s chest in two slow circles. Henry felt his nipples stiffening against the rough skin of the older man’s hands. He took a trembling breath, loud enough for John to hear, who glanced up at him with another smile.

“I wouldn’t dare,” John whispered, lowering his gaze to Henry’s chest again as he continued the gentle caresses. “I’m just an old mortal myself.”

Henry leaned down to kiss John again, slow and urgent at the same time.

“Well, I’d rather be your cupbearer than any God’s’,” he breathed against his lips. After getting lost in yet another kiss, with John’s hands still resting on his chest, Henry ventured further and went to the place his body had been wanting to go ever since the night in Liverpool. He tipped his hips forwards and bore down against John, a sharp gasp escaping him as he felt his own arousal moving along the side of the unmistakable hardness in John’s trousers. There was no way to make his body stop now that he knew what it felt like, and he kept rocking his hips against John’s in quick, helpless circles.

John’s breathing grew heavier, and he let it happen for a while, before Henry suddenly felt his hands on his moving hips, stilling them. 

“What do you need from me?” John whispered, staring up at him with such devotion that Henry had to take a moment to find his voice again.

“I want you,” he responded shakily. “I want everything, John. Everything you’d do ashore with another man.”

“You’re not just another man, Henry,” John said, his voice as firm as it was helpless. Henry smiled and closed the gap to kiss him again.

“I know,” he whispered against his friend’s lips with a slightly watery chuckle. He could feel John smile against his lips, but a moment later, one of the hands on his chest nudged him back into standing. He felt the loss of warmth and friction against his front _acutely._

“… I think,” John began softly, his eyes trailing down Henry’s body, “I can remember telling you to get undressed.”

Henry chuckled and finally fumbled the laces of his trousers open. When he dropped them to the floor and carefully stepped out of them, he remembered the first time he’d been with a woman. He’d been nervous then, uncertain and uncomfortable and all too eager to cover himself up again. It was nothing like that with John. He didn’t think it was still possible for him to feel uncomfortable in John’s presence, but, beyond that, it made him feel _good_ to expose himself to John, to feel his eyes on him, to present himself in his physical entirety to the man who already knew the entirety of his soul.

He stepped back up to John wearing only his smallclothes and nudged his shoulder gently. 

“Your tattoos, John… Please. I’ve wanted to study them ever since I first met you.”

John smiled at that and indulged him, nimble fingers undoing the buttons on his shirt. 

“And how could I ever keep you from any of your studies,” John hummed with a slightly teasing undertone, letting his shirt fall open. The undershirt he wore beneath covered the majority of his tattoos, but hints of them were already visible on his shoulders and by his collarbones, just before they joined with greying chest hair and disappeared behind the white fabric of his shirt. Henry took his time taking it all in as if he was trying to puzzle together the tattoos with what little he could see of them. In truth, he was trying to memorise John’s body in every single state of dress and undress. He wanted to fill his head with pictures of John and dedicate a whole corner in his mind just to him.

“… Can I? he asked finally, bringing his hands to the collar of John’s shirt, starting to slowly push it off his shoulders. John smiled and let him, with the same endless patience he applied to everything else in life. Henry felt like a fumbling virgin and an eager explorer all at once. It wasn’t the first time he’d undressed another person, but he’d never undressed another man before. He’d never undressed John before. He’d never felt coarse hair in places where Rose had been smooth, muscles and fat in places where Rose had had none, tan, scarred skin where Rose’s had been pale and unmarred. Everything about John’s body was new, and he wanted to learn all of it by heart.

He appreciated not having to say any of this. John sat back and let himself be explored, as if he knew the inside of Henry’s head with the same thoroughness Henry wished to know his body. In all likelihood, he did. Henry had never revealed as much of himself to anyone before. John, he realised all of a sudden, was the person who knew him best in the entire world. 

When the shirt had finally fallen to the mattress, Henry let his fingertips trace the tattoos on John’s shoulders and arms just briefly – small, simplistic symbols, black lines and squares along with flowers and sturdy anchors - before reaching for the hem of his undershirt. Once he’d peeled the fabric over John’s head, he was faced with the other man’s bare torso, for the first time since the inn. This time, he had enough light, enough proximity and enough time to really drink it in. 

The lumpy sailor’s clothes hid a lot, after all. Beneath them, John was more muscled than Henry had expected, even though he’d witnessed the steward’s strength many times. His chest was almost entirely covered in either ink or body hair. Henry’s fingers found the curve of the beautiful, dark wing that curled across the entirety of the steward’s right chest, going all the way up to his collarbone. It led into the body of a Greek sphinx that covered most of the rest of John’s torso. Her head, with wide, inquisitive eyes, was right above his heart. Henry rested the flat of his hand on it and looked up at John’s face with a small smile.

“Do you love me, John?” he asked softly. The older man held his gaze and put his hand on top of Henry’s, still covering his heart.

“More than I thought possible.” 

Henry smiled at the raw honesty in his mentor’s eyes and voice. They kissed, briefly, before Henry pulled back again. 

“How?” he mused, sliding his hand further down to reveal the face of the Sphinx again. “How could I have possibly stolen your heart when you have the Sphinx guarding it?”

John huffed a quiet laugh and dropped his hands to Henry’s hips, his thumbs starting to draw small circles into his skin.

“She must have realised that there was no riddle in the world that could have kept you away,” John responded. 

Before Henry could speak again, he found himself pulled into another kiss - one that he almost choked on when he felt John’s hand run down the front of his smalls.

“John…” Henry breathed against the other’s lips desperately, only to be shushed. 

“We have to be quiet, my love,” John murmured gently. “Tell me you can be quiet, Henry.”

Henry swallowed, feeling a blush rise to his cheeks once again, but he forced himself to focus on the volume of his sounds and nodded. John studied him for a few beats before nodding as well.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Get up for a moment.” Henry shifted off of John’s lap quickly. The movement made him wince, because the sheer weight of his cock between his legs when he stood made him painfully aware of how aroused he was. Luckily, he didn’t have to stand for long. Once John had stood up as well, the older man nodded at the berth. “Lie down for me. On your stomach,” he instructed quietly and pressed a kiss to Henry’s temple.

Henry felt anticipation pool in his stomach like liquid heat. He supposed he would have felt nervous, had he been with anyone but John. Before complying, he turned his face to connect his lips to John’s again. He felt the older man smile into the kiss and that simple fact made Henry lose all focus. He turned towards John fully and deepened the kiss, his body pressing closer to the other man’s all by itself until he could feel the proof of John’s arousal. He didn’t know if it was the foreign sensation of someone else’s prick pressing against him tainting his perception, but John felt a lot bigger than him. He couldn’t help but roll his hips forward, both hesitant and curious. John’s resulting gasp caught Henry off guard. He hadn’t fully registered that he was, in fact, bringing John as much pleasure as vice versa. The thought only made him more desperate, and he finally stepped back to lie on John’s berth. At first, he remained on his back, propped up on his elbows.

“John,” he whispered, his eyes traveling down the older man’s body, following the sphinx’s haunches all the way to John’s right hip. “I want to…see you.”

John paused and studied him for a moment. Something in his gaze made Henry shiver.

“You’re looking at me,” John responded, and Henry caught onto the unspoken prompt. He licked his lips and gazed up into John’s eyes.

“… I want to see your prick.” He could feel the hint of a blush as he said it, but it was more out of excitement than embarrassment. The corners of John’s lips quirked up and he moved leisurely to undo his pants. Henry sat up, but before John had even finished untying the laces, he realised he wasn’t content just watching. He reached out towards John, and his friend stepped forward into his grasp when he saw it. Henry licked his lips as soon as he was touching John. Where he’d been slow and reverent in uncovering the older man’s torso, he was hurried and impatient now. He tugged the remaining laces open haphazardly and didn’t linger any longer than necessary before he moved to pull the heavy brown fabric down. Faced with just John’s smallclothes, he forced himself to the briefest moment of hesitation, for politeness’ sake. Henry huffed a soft sound when he felt the older man’s hand stroking through his hair. He took it as a sign that no hesitation was necessary and grasped the top of John’s smalls to slowly peel them off of him. He could feel the resistance where the fabric caught on the older man’s length. When the soft material finally slid down to John’s knees and left him bare, Henry’s breath caught in his throat.

“Can I touch you?” he asked, managing to tear his gaze away with difficulty and shooting John a quizzical look. John smiled softly, his hand smoothing back Henry’s hair again.

“Of course.”

Henry’s gaze dropped back down to John’s crotch immediately. He swallowed thickly as he reached out. There was an almost unbearable heat tingling every inch of his body, from his cheeks to his fingertips. When he curled his hand around John’s length, it felt almost cool in comparison. He listened closely to hear the slow intake of breath from above him when he tightened his grip slightly. Then, he began moving his hand. John continued petting his hair unperturbed as Henry stroked him, but his breathing sped up and his prick twitched in Henry’s grasp. Even these miniscule reactions turned Henry into an addict. He picked up the pace of his hand. Although he wanted to see John’s face, he hadn’t yet managed to look up. Instead, he was watching, fascinated, as the swollen head of the other man’s cock disappeared and reappeared between his fingers. He felt the strange smoothness of the skin surrounding it, and it made him curious about the glistening tip. He pulled John’s foreskin down as far as he could and lifted his other hand to touch his fingertips to the exposed head. It earned him the sound of a slightly stuttered breath, and he finally looked up to see John staring down at him hungrily. Without saying a word, the older man reached down to wrap his hands around Henry’s. While holding him in place by the wrist where he was touching him, John moved Henry’s other hand up. Henry could feel the warmth of John’s hand on top of his own as he guided him, and then the slick heat of his foreskin as it slid over the fingers of his other hand and trapped them in place. When John pulled away, Henry stared, eager to see. It looked as intimate as it felt; to have part of himself disappear in John’s body, his fingertips swallowed up by his foreskin and pressed against the tip of his cock. It made his own length twitch in his trousers, and he carefully moved his fingers around, watching the small bulge they made in the sleeve of skin. These gentle, hidden caresses made John’s breathing shorten further, and Henry filed that fact away in a new corner of his mind whose focus was only on how to bring John pleasure. To his mild disappointment, John reached for his wrists again a moment later to pull him away.

“Another time,” John soothed, apparently noticing Henry’s reluctance. “I’ll let you learn my whole body by heart, I promise… But tonight, I want to make love to you.”

Despite his disappointment, Henry really, really couldn’t say no to that. He scooted back on the bed again and finally turned onto his stomach. He didn’t realise he was still wearing his smalls until he felt John’s hands stroke across them. 

“…I am going to take these off now,” John whispered to him, his hands gently caressing his arse through the fabric of his underwear. Henry could only nod, seeing as it meant he’d get to feel that touch on his bare skin. He shifted slightly to assist John in his task and soon enough, he was lying on the steward’s bed entirely naked. Part of him almost wanted to turn around just to even the scales, seeing as John couldn’t exactly see his length in this position, but the older man proved that he had other ways of sating his curiosity. 

Henry moaned, louder than he’d intended, when John’s hand snuck between his body and the mattress and wrapped around his cock. 

“Shh,” the steward soothed quickly. “Quiet, Henry, remember?” he whispered. “You can bite my pillow if you need help stifling your sounds.”

Henry suddenly realised that there’d been more than one reason John had chosen this position. The pillow was right next to his head, and Henry tugged it a little closer just to be safe. Then, he gave the hint of a nod over his shoulder, and when John started stroking him, he was slightly more prepared. He bit his tongue and focused on his breathing to make sure he stayed quiet, while John enveloped his aching arousal with warmth and toyed with him with undeniable skill. Henry didn’t believe himself to be a jealous man, but the thought that John had done this to many other men did fill him with a strange sort of longing. Part of him wondered what John might have been like at his age, or perhaps younger, when he’d been with a man for the first time, but as enticing as the thought of discovering all these hidden pleasures together was, Henry was also greatly enjoying the fact that John could guide him. In a way, it was just like any of their other lessons.

His mind numbed by pleasure, he would have happily lain there and be touched by John until he reached his climax, but when his friend stopped stroking him, he remembered that that wasn’t what he’d asked for. He felt the mattress shift and heard a small glass object clinking as John lifted it from somewhere. Before Henry could twist around to look, John’s hand returned, this time to gently stroke Henry’s lower back.

“Oil,” John explained quietly when the glass bottle in his hands clinked again. “It’s safe, and it will help ease the way,” he added, his hand moving lower to gently caress Henry’s backside again. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You could never hurt me,” Henry responded immediately. John leaned down to press a kiss to his temple in response to that, and Henry could feel that he was smiling. When the hand left him, he felt the loss immediately, the cold seeping into the pleasantly tingling, warm skin John had exposed to the room again. He heard John uncork the bottle and wondered if he always had it with him. If he didn’t partake in sodomy at sea, why had he brought the oil? The sudden, unbidden memories of spitting in his own palm one too many times during lonely years at sea answered that question rather swiftly, and he blushed as he imagined John lying in this very bed, pleasuring himself. He was about to ask if John had ever thought of him while touching himself, when his thoughts were cut short by the sensation of the shockingly rough pad of John’s finger sliding down into his cleft. He couldn’t help but tense when it pressed to his opening, purely on reflex.

“Breathe,” John soothed quietly, massaging the tense pucker with slow circles. He paused to pour some more oil over it, which made Henry cringe a little. He trusted John, but he couldn’t entirely imagine this becoming pleasant. John seemed to sense his discomfort, because he lightened his touch considerably and reached around with his other hand to start stroking Henry again, gentle and teasing, to keep him distracted. It worked almost instantly, and the younger man moaned when he felt John’s finger rub across his tip. John stilled. “Shh,” he reminded Henry gently. Henry nodded, turning his head to bite down on the pillow immediately this time. For a while, John let Henry enjoy this simple touch, one fingertip barely brushing against his opening while his other hand brought him only pleasure. “…I’m going to try again,” he warned Henry eventually, starting to press his finger forward more insistently. “Breathe…” he said again, leaning down to nuzzle into Henry’s hair. Henry did his best to stay lax, but it was still impossible not to be hyper aware of the touch and the strangeness of it. “You’re doing so well,” John murmured to him, and Henry felt his fingertip press hard enough to part the flesh of his hole ever so slightly. Somehow, the older man’s gentle praise made it a lot easier to stay relaxed. “You’re already opening up for me, my love,” the steward continued, and Henry allowed himself to sink into the content safety the other man’s praise edged him towards. It was pleasurable all on its own. John’s words distracted him almost as much as the hand that was still touching his cock. When he felt John’s finger actually enter him, the discomfort of the unfamiliar feeling was overshadowed by pride thanks to John’s words. “Beautiful,” the older man whispered to him. “You always were a fast and eager learner. You’re being so good for me.” 

Henry couldn’t help but whimper, his eyes closing as he let the praise drag him deeper into this new, warm ocean of pleasure. John’s finger began moving slowly while he continued murmuring to him, repeating the same patterns and rhythms until Henry got somewhat used to the feeling. It was still strange, but, he realised, not unpleasant. John seemed to notice his lover was starting to let go, because he pressed his finger deeper and started moving in new patterns, mapping out his insides the way Henry had mapped out his tattoos. The thought occurred to Henry that this was exactly what he’d liked so much about having his fingers slid between John’s cockhead and his foreskin; being so intimately linked that their very bodies became one. His mind started sketching out images of what John was seeing, of the older man’s finger disappearing in Henry’s body, being welcomed and swallowed up as if that was where it belonged. Henry moaned into the pillow and spread his legs a little wider. 

“There,” John whispered, his smile audible, “Does it feel better now?” Henry nodded without hesitation and didn’t so much as tense when John started thrusting his finger in and out of him. “That's a good boy, you’re doing so well, Henry.” 

Henry was quite grateful for the pillow by now, even though he wanted John to hear just what he was doing to him. That would have to wait, he decided. If for nothing else, he would survive this voyage just for that. The pressure and the stretch inside him grew, and Henry realised John had started curling his finger. Once again, he focused on his breathing to make sure his body relaxed. It was on his second exhale that John’s finger struck something that made Henry cry out into the pillow. Both them stilled. 

“… Do that again?” Henry finally whispered, letting the pillow slip from between his teeth for a moment. Making love to Rose had always felt good, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever experienced a sensation he could compare to what John had just done. 

The steward waited for him to bite the pillow again before he resumed his gentle ministrations. For a few seconds, he circled his finger around the spot before pressing against it once more. Henry whimpered, and he felt his length twitch in John’s hand. He also noticed said hand had stopped stroking him and realised it was probably for the best. He would not be able to last long, now that they’d opened this door to an entirely new world of pleasure. John kept dragging his finger over the spot, slow and with just the right amount of pressure, until Henry was trembling. When a second finger pressed against his rim, Henry knew what to do, and with just one or two deep breaths, it had slid into him alongside the first. The discomfort of the sensation had worn off, and Henry could focus fully on the pleasure it brought. When his prostate was abandoned in favour of steady thrusting of the two fingers, Henry furrowed a brow.

“Please… Faster,” he whispered, just loud enough to be heard. The fingers had started feeling strange again, the slow thrusting not providing sufficient stimulation after the attention his prostate had received. If his friend was surprised by the request, he didn’t show it. Instead, he complied, all too quickly, and started fucking him with his fingers in earnest. The thrusts weren’t strong enough to rattle the mattress with just John’s arm strength behind them, but Henry was rocked to and fro on it until he gripped onto the wooden frame. John was not only moving his fingers faster, he was moving them in new directions too, working them from side to side in a way that felt almost like vibrations inside Henry. For a long few minutes, Henry could only focus on the feeling and the wet, sinful sounds of John’s fingers thrusting into his hole. Then, something else drew all his attention rather sharply. He felt a slick, blunt hardness bump against his upper thigh, and he couldn’t hold in his gasp. Until now, he’d forgotten what John’s fingers were preparing him for. Now that he had a reminder that was so impossible to ignore, he found himself growing _impatient._ He wanted John to be inside him, not just with his fingers but with the most intimate part of him. He wanted to be filled, stuffed with his lover’s arousal and flooded with his release. He wanted to sleep with John the way he’d slept with Rose. He wanted John to have him the way John had had other men.

Either John had sensed his impatience, or he was beginning to feel looser to the older man, because the next time he felt that hardness touch his skin, it was no accident. He glanced back at John and could only just see the man grasping himself at the base to move his cock along Henry’s thigh, up to his left arse cheek. Henry felt slick leak from the tip of John’s length, smearing across his cheek, and whimpered at the feeling. John continued the movement, lightly moving his cock against Henry’s skin, teasing him like that for a while. Just when Henry thought he’d have to _beg_ John to stop the teasing, he finally felt the tip slide into his cleft, right to where he was stretched around John’s fingers. John thrust his fingers a few more times, twisting and scissoring them, all the while his cock rubbed against Henry’s rim. The feeling was impossible to describe. The thought, the idea of what was about to transpire, of what had already transpired put him in the same state being pulled by a whale on a whaling boat for the first time had put him in. He was breathless, his heart was pumping, his entire body was wild, and he never wanted it to end.

“John, please, don’t make me wait any longer,” Henry gasped when he felt his lover’s cock nudge his swollen rim yet again. “I’m ready.” He heard John’s soft laugh, but before he could turn to glance at him, John brushed his fingers against his prostate and Henry had to quickly bite the pillow.

“You can’t be certain you’re ready when you’ve never done what we’re about to do, Henry,” John whispered to him lowly, and pushed a third finger into him slowly. “Just a bit longer… I need to make sure. You’re doing so well, have just a little more patience,” John murmured, and Henry happily let himself be soothed by his words and the tantalising feeling of the three fingers curling inside him.

Luckily, John had been honest; it only took a few more moments until he pulled all three fingers out. Henry had a few seconds to catch his breath while John reached for the oil again to slick his length properly. When his hands returned to Harry’s hips, one of them slid up to wipe the smear of precum off his left arse cheek gently. After that, John didn’t waste any more time. Henry shivered when he felt the tip of John’s cock return to his hole. It felt even slicker now, the oil slowly dripping down onto Henry, until John finally started pushing in. Henry winced at the initial sting, and John stilled immediately, but Henry shook his head. 

“Keep going,” he said breathlessly, and John did. Henry felt himself opening to the intrusion, inch by inch, and not entirely without pain, but it was easy to endure. Easy to think of the pleasure instead, to sketch a mental image of John’s prick entering his body. When John must have been about halfway in, he pulled back again and thrust shallowly a few times. The feeling was entirely different to what his fingers had felt like, and Henry was left breathless. Suddenly, he was desperate for John to thrust all the way in and start fucking him, in spite of the pain. The older man, of course, did no such thing, and Henry was sure he’d be thankful for John’s gentleness later. For now though, he whimpered impatiently. After a few more shallow thrusts, John started pushing deeper and deeper, until suddenly, Henry could feel John’s pelvis pressing against him.

“Henry,” the older man breathed, and oh, Henry wanted to put the way he sounded in a bottle and listen to it over and over again. The fact that he could give the older man enough pleasure to affect his voice so greatly filled him with pride. “You feel so good… You’re a miracle.”

Henry could feel himself blushing and buried his face deeper in the pillow, which was for the best, because the next moment, John began rolling his hips and Henry mewled. Henry had been thinking about this, in some way or another, ever since John Bridgens had taken off his shirt in the inn what seemed like a lifetime ago. He’d been thinking about feeling John all around him, on top of him, inside of him, about the smell of sex and sweat, about the feeling of desperate, urgent touches and the taste of hot, salty skin, about heavy breaths and low moans.

By now, he knew that he was never going to forget the first time he’d laid eyes on John. To Henry, everything about John Bridgens was unforgettable, and the same applied, without a doubt, to the way he fucked. 

There was a tenderness to John’s thrusts, even though they were hard enough to shake Henry’s entire body and make the withered wood of the whole cabin groan and sigh. It were those noises more than the ones he stifled in the pillow that should have worried Henry, but in that moment, he couldn’t help but think that even being lashed would be more than worth it for this. John made love the way a starving man ate and the way a seamstress sewed an expensive wedding dress. He was as rough and desperate as he was reverent and careful. He fucked Henry like a ravenous bull mounting his mate at the height of spring and like a Shakespearean hero bedding his lover with unparalleled worship. Henry felt these contrasts and contradictions down to his bones. He felt torn apart and put back together by John with each thrust. He didn’t know how much time passed. He wasn’t aware of anything but John and the feeling of his impossibly hot length slamming into him again and again. It didn’t feel like his first time anymore. It had, at the beginning, but now it felt like John had fucked him countless times, just in this one encounter. It felt like there couldn’t have been a time in his life where he hadn’t known this feeling. He never wanted it to stop, and yet at the same time, he was painfully aware of his own length, dragging against the sheets with every thrust, leaking and so hard it hurt. If he’d felt capable of moving at all, he would have reached down to touch himself and end this torture a while ago, but as it was, he was helpless to the pleasure John commanded. 

When the steward finally wrapped his hand around Henry’s throbbing prick, the younger man almost sobbed.

“Shh, it’s alright,” John whispered to him, his voice right by his ear and yet miles away as Henry started spilling. “There, that’s perfect, you’re so good, Henry, so good for me.” The older man’s words were rushed and almost slurred with passion, quick, staccato breaths interrupting now and then, but Henry heard every single one of them and trembled harder as they, as well as the steward’s relentless hand on his cock, drew his orgasm out to lengths he hadn’t thought possible. Around the time that it was finally starting to slow, he felt John twitch inside him and fill him up with his seed. Henry whimpered into the pillow as the older man found his climax as well and for a second, he felt a twinge of sadness at the fact that he wasn’t able to see John’s face. He reminded himself that this was only the first time of hopefully many, many more. 

Having another man’s release inside him was strange, but less strange than he’d expected it to be. As John rode out his orgasm, Henry could practically feel his sharp thrusts stir what he’d spilled inside him. It was yet another part of John inside him, he realised blearily, while slowly falling victim to exhaustion. When John finally pulled out of him, Henry’s eyes shot open at the sensation, whimpering. John shushed him gently and got off the berth. From the corner of his eyes, Henry watched as John pulled two clean nightshirts and a smaller cloth out of his trunk. He didn’t bother to move, not even when he felt John’s spend leak from his hole. The older man came back to the bed a moment later, and Henry’s eyes slipped closed when a hand caressed his hair. Another hand stroked his thigh for a moment, before moving to scoop up the wet, warm trail dripping down from Henry's loose hole. Henry hissed when two fingers pushed John's seed back into him, and he quickly turned his face away to hide his deepening blush. The hand in his hair gently massaged his scalp as if in apology before both hands left him again. They returned with the small scrap of fabric John had gotten from the trunk and Henry tried not to fall asleep while the older man cleaned him lovingly and dressed him in a soft shirt once he was done.

“Henry,” John murmured to him eventually, his voice reaching Henry as if he were underwater. “I need you to sit up for just a moment so I can change the sheets.”

Henry made a soft noise that could have been interpreted as agreement, with some imagination. Move, however, he did not. John chuckled softly, and Henry made another noise as he was lifted not two seconds later. He couldn’t quite open his eyes anymore to observe how exactly John managed to change the sheets while also holding him, but when he was placed onto fresh, soft fabric, he decided to put it down to special steward skills. He tried desperately not to fall asleep entirely. Not yet. 

When John finally lay down beside him, Henry turned to snuggle into him immediately. With the other man’s warmth surrounding him and the sound of his heartbeat beneath his head, Henry felt even more tired than moments before, but he managed to press a last, lingering kiss to John’s chest and mutter the words he would carry in his heart forever. 

“I love you, John Bridgens.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote is from the Illiad, to be found in my sources at the end of the last chapter!


	10. Lovers In St. Elmo's Light

**BRIDGENS**

Two weeks after the Erebus had hailed them, John and Henry had taken supper with Crozier’s phantoms and their new first mate, Charles Des Voeux. Henry seemed fond of the new mate, and John would rather take his meals with Des Voeux and Blanky than with people like Hickey any day. At the time, it had also been two weeks since anyone in the crew had seen Captain Crozier. Captain Fitzjames had taken over command of the ship, while Jopson had spent his every waking hour in the captain’s quarters, it seemed. The crew had been told that the captain was sick, but no one knew exactly what was ailing him.

John had a good idea, given the exchange he’d observed two weeks prior, but he wasn’t one for spreading rumours. There’d also been some far more rewarding things to talk about, in his opinion. His conversations with Captain Fitzjames in the last two weeks had turned out to be delightful. The young captain was as cultured as his appearance made him seem, but nowhere near as pretentious and shallow as his arrogance would indicate. John found that the Captain genuinely valued his advice and insights when it came to literature and philosophy, and their conversations, though never as deep or thorough as his Henry's, were welcome refreshments during long days of work. 

Besides that, the company of their tablemates that night had been rather pleasant as well, until it ended up being cut short. 

That very supper had been interrupted by their captain’s reappearance. Stood on deck in the chilly evening breeze, Crozier had looked better than John had seen him look ever since their first voyage together. That, along with the fact that he later saw Edward Little return what John believed to be Crozier’s gun to their captain, cemented his assumption that Captain Crozier had, in fact, somehow found the strength to bid the hard spirits goodbye. John could only theorise if Captain Fitzjames’ presence had something to do with it.

That fateful supper lay four months in the past now. Four months that had been the most pleasant months the Terror crew had seen since the start of their journey. 

Crozier wasn’t the man John had once known. He wasn’t the brilliant captain who’d put his crew before anything else. He wasn’t cured of the madness the whale had cursed him with. He was still single-mindedly obsessed with the creature, he still put its death above all else, he still had no patience for the world or common sense. 

But he was a man again. He was no longer the heedless, unpredictable animal the drink had made him. The hate in his eyes was still there, but it was sharp and targeted now, not dulled over with the haze of liquor and directed at anyone who was near enough to receive it.

He was a captain again. He was nowhere near the captain he’d once been, but he was a captain all the same. 

The men were happier and a lot less tense, that much was apparent. The Erebites were completely integrated in the crew by now, and the men respected and obeyed Fitzjames just as much as they did their actual captain. 

John had started referring to Crozier and Fitzjames as their two captains in his head, and Crozier no longer seemed to despise that notion; in fact, he encouraged it. The two of them still seemed to disagree on a lot. Most frequently, of course, on the whale. John couldn’t remember a single day in the last four months that hadn’t seen their two captains bickering at some point. Likewise, he couldn't remember a single day he hadn't seen them make each other smile. 

Des Voeux was a lot more popular than Mr. Hornby had been. The crew, for the first time since the voyage had begun a year ago, seemed content with its leadership. Even Edward Little, who was entirely outside the ship’s hierarchy, was well-respected these days, seeing as he was largely considered the captain’s right hand man. Whether or not that bothered their first mate, who should traditionally fill that role, was a question that had certainly crossed some of the men’s minds. 

Little and Des Voeux were Captain Crozier’s second and third in command, and that was the unspoken truth that everyone on board, Des Voeux included, accepted.

Henry’s fondness of Des Voeux led to them spending time with the first mate now and then, and more often than not, that would mean spending time with Little as well. 

John often took his supper early so he’d be ready later when the time came to serve the captains their supper, and most times, Henry was his lone companion on those days, but this evening, Des Voeux and Little had joined them again. 

“Mr. Des Voeux, how long have you been sailing with Captain Fitzjames, if you don’t mind me asking?” John couldn’t help but be curious about the younger captain. He seemed so out of place on a whaler, and more out of place even by Crozier’s side, and yet, both these things worked out to near perfection. They hadn’t lowered for a whale in the past months, so John hadn’t yet had the chance to observe the young captain during an actual hunt, but if the competence he’d shown in all other areas so far was any indication, it was going to be a fruitful hunt.

Des Voeux swallowed the small bite of bone-dry ship’s biscuit that he’d been chewing on for the better half of ten minutes and shook his head. “Not at all,” the young man said, pausing to wash the biscuit down with a chug from his grog. “We’d been sailing on the Erebus together for six years when the whale attacked us.”

John nodded to himself. Six years was a long time for a whaling voyage, but it wasn’t unheard of, especially with a bigger whaler. “And I sailed with him once before, a couple of years ago, as a young foremast hand like you, Henry. Younger, even," Des Voeux added, sparing John’s young lover a wry grin. 

“… I don’t mean to pry, but,” Henry began hesitantly. John knew what he was about to ask. It was the question everyone had had on their minds for the past four months. “Do you know what kind of history our captains have?” 

Des Voeux smirked, crumbling up the remaining ship’s biscuit in his hands.

“I was wondering when someone would finally get their pecker up and ask me. Excuse my language,” he said, the latter part directed at Little in the least sincere manner possible, which the harpooneer took in stride without batting an eye. “Captain Fitzjames was a mate on Crozier’s ship when your dear captain was a little younger.” Des Voeux grinned again. “I’m surprised Captain Fitzjames hasn’t started sharing his anecdotes yet, to be honest. He’s very fond of them. Suffice to say, he and Crozier locked horns like stags and bulls on that voyage. Makes sense, doesn’t it? They’re both such headstrong and stubborn men.”

“You would know all about that, Charles,” Little remarked, smiling into his grog without looking up. 

Henry chuckled, and John gave a small grin as well, while the mate glared at Little. The harpooneer was a peculiar conversational partner. Usually, when the four of them were together like this, Des Voeux would do most of the talking and Little would observe the conversation quietly, unless he was prompted to talk, but sometimes, he would offer curt, fitting comments, proving that his silence wasn’t at all a product of shyness or lack of rhetorical skill. John had come to the conclusion that the harpooneer was simply extremely reserved, which made him wonder all the more how someone as tireless and vocal as Des Voeux had managed to get so evidently close to him.

“Anyway, that is only Fitzjames’ half of the story. You’d have to ask Mr. Little for more insight,” Des Voeux stated after he’d glared sufficiently. 

Little glanced up at his tablemates and put his cup down, clearing his throat.

“… I’m afraid I don’t have all that much to add,” he said evenly, and it was clear to John that that was only partly true. He admired Little for having such respect for their captain’s personal affairs even in the mess hall, where sailors would usually run their mouths about command in every way possible. “Captain Crozier is a lot less…gregarious than Captain Fitzjames.”

“What he means to say is James Fitzjames talks a lot,” Des Voeux deadpanned, smirking at Little, who gave only a sigh in response. 

John looked from one man to the other and wondered, quietly, if Des Voeux and Little knew that he and Henry were aware of the true nature of their relationship.

  
  


Three weeks ago, the Terror had gotten into a storm that John believed had changed the fates of many men aboard, including Little and Des Voeux… 

***

_Three weeks prior…_

“I can’t believe you’ve never read _Emma._ ” Henry grinned at him from where he was reclined on the bed, his shirt collar askew where John had tugged it down to suck a mark into his skin. He hadn’t bothered fixing it yet, and the older man’s eyes kept being drawn back to the blossoming bruise. Tearing his gaze away to look at Henry’s cheeky grin instead that made him look so much younger than he was, John huffed a soft, amused breath.

“I never got around to it. I’m not too fond of modern literature.”

“Well aren’t you all airs and graces,” Henry teased. John decided he’d heard quite enough and leaned over Henry to shut him up with a kiss.

“… I believe we have it in the ship’s library, if you want to read it,” John suggested quietly when he broke the kiss. Henry’s eyes glinted with mischievous glee.

“Oh, we do? Well in that case, I might put down _Xenophon_ to read Austen instead.”

John kissed him again. At first, he’d been counting every kiss, but it had become impossible. Henry’s lips were as addictive as the rest of him, and these days, they seemed to constantly be red and kiss-swollen, and when they weren’t, John instantly got the urge to make it so.

“You can read whatever you like, _after_ you finish the books I’ve given you.”

Henry chuckled, tangling his fingers in John’s shirt to keep him close.

“My, when did you become a governess?” Henry teased, before stealing another kiss. This one was slower, more sensual, and John tried not to follow Henry’s persistent hands when the younger man lay back on the bed and tried to tug John on top of himself.

There hadn’t been more than stolen kisses between the two since that first night. With two new commanders on board, and the three phantoms no longer hiding, the officers’ quarters were simply too busy to risk letting Henry stay overnight, and they both had their duties during the day. Even now, during their lessons, something could constantly be heard outside in the companionway, be it their captains’ bickering, the tapping of Thomas Blanky’s peg leg, Irving humming a melody to himself or Des Voeux and Little’s quiet conversation. In spite of the lack of privacy that could not have come at a worse time, John thoroughly enjoyed the changes the Erebites had brought about. The ship was livelier now. Happier. There were fewer fights among the crew, and fewer crude words about Crozier in the mess hall at night.

Henry tugged at his lapels again, and John gave in and shifted to cage him against the bed. He’d always been a very reliable man, with strong self-control, but Henry made him weaker than anyone else ever had.

He deepened the kiss but before he could really get lost in it, they could hear Blanky rush down the companionway. John sat up immediately, and Henry finally fixed his shirt. When their fellow whaler knocked on John’s door, John glanced back to make sure Henry was decent before opening it.

“Thought I’d find the lad here,” Blanky said upon spotting Henry. Had it not been spoken with such audible fondness, such a statement might have worried John, but Blanky’s grin was honest. “There’s a storm coming on, Des Voeux wants capable hands on deck to help prepare. Seems a nasty one.” Blanky’s grin widened. “The storm, I meant.” 

John heard Henry chuckle behind him and stepped aside slightly to give him room to pass. He stifled the urge to brush a hand against his lower back when he did. These small, simple touches and gestures of affection had quickly become the norm between them. They’d always had them, but now, they were romantic and more suggestive in nature, so John took care not to let anyone see. 

When Blanky and Henry had disappeared through the latch, John fixed his bedsheets and decided to seek out Captain Fitzjames. Since Jopson was devoted to Crozier with almost familial care, and since they now had two captains, John had become somewhat of Fitzjames’ personal steward. If the storm was going to be as nasty as Blanky assumed, it would only be right to see if Fitzjames needed anything before they’d have to fight wind and weather. 

The second he opened the door to his cabin again, he heard shouting coming from Crozier’s quarters. Their captains’ fights had become a lot less hateful, but no less heated. He stepped up to the great cabin and wondered if he should knock to potentially put an end to the argument, when he noticed that the door was slightly ajar. 

Fitzjames stood at Crozier’s cabinet, the light from the oil lamp on top of it bathing him in golden light. Crozier himself wasn’t visible through the crack, but John could still hear him and his angry tirade against the whale.

When Fitzjames interrupted him, his voice was harsh but quiet.

“She didn’t leave you because of the whale, Francis. She left you because of your obsession.”

This made John pause. He’d been about to retreat back to his own cabin, perhaps fetch some towels and warm water for later when Henry would return from deck sopping wet, no doubt, but in all of Crozier’s hatred of the whale, John had never heard a woman mentioned. The cabin was silent for a moment, then the floorboards creaked as Crozier apparently stepped closer to Fitzjames.

“My obsession,” the captain echoed. He’d been yelling before, but his voice was naught more than a hiss now, pure venom. “That beast killed my men, James, twenty-five good men. I was their captain, and I failed them. They’re dead because of me. Dead and gone. That is why I’m still chasing the bloody whale. It has nothing to do with Sophia.”

“Sophia is the only person who could have talked you out of it.”

“I _refuse,”_ Crozier said sharply, “to be talked out of avenging my men.”

“Avenging them?” Fitzjames called out, throwing his hands up in the air. “What you’re doing is risking the lives of even _more_ of your men. Your _own_ life, Francis!”

“I don’t give a _damn_ about my own life, James. And neither should you.”

Once more, the cabin fell silent. John could feel the tension even through the door.

“… Whether I hunt the whale or not, it will take more men,” Crozier said, breaking the silence. “It took yours just a few weeks ago. I have to try, James, and if it kills me.”

“It will,” Fitzjames said, coolly, without missing a beat. “And your men with you.”

The floorboards creaked again, and Crozier finally stepped into John’s field of vision. He was sneering at Fitzjames, who met his glare confidently.

“Why don’t you go back to Erebus then, James? Sink with her, if you’re so certain you’ll meet your death with me. _You_ came to _me,_ needing _my_ help, but you’re aboard _my_ goddamn ship now. If you have a problem with the way I run it-“

“Oh, damn your eyes, Francis, you’re the captain of this ship, alright. And some captain you are. We’re all sailing to our death, what else do you require? Respect?”

Fitzjames straightened instead of lounging against the cabinet any longer, staring Crozier down in the small gap that remained between them. It was that very moment that John began questioning the nature of his captains’ shared past.

“Well, earn it.” John could hear the challenge in Fitzjames’ words and knew that there was far, far more to the tension between their two captains than the men would ever guess. “Put your crew before that blasted whale.”

Crozier stared at Fitzjames for a long moment in which John could have sworn neither man breathed. He could see Crozier’s jaw twitch again. The somewhat amusing thought crossed John’s mind that this could go either way, and he couldn’t help himself; he stayed to find out if this would end in someone getting punched (in which case he’d have to intervene), or….

Crozier moved first. He took a sharp step forward and Fitzjames’ hands fisted in the front of the captain’s shirt immediately. Their lips crashed with such ferocity that it almost seemed like a punch in its own right. The urgency in every movement betrayed that this was the first time since the Erebites had joined their crew that the two men gave in to their desires.

Fitzjames made the softest sound against Crozier’s lips, which only seemed to spur the other man on. He changed the angle and forced his tongue deeper into the younger man’s mouth, while Fitzjames moved to lift himself on top of the cabinet, his legs parted for Crozier to press in between them. When Crozier rolled his hips and Fitzjames broke the kiss with a breathless moan, John quietly stepped away from the door and went back to his own cabin.

About an hour passed before the storm hit. John could only assume their two captains were well preoccupied until then. Henry hadn’t returned from the deck, so John, after preparing new blankets, heated towels, and freshly boiled water to take care of his lover later, went to search for him. He knew Henry was an experienced sailor himself, but he’d still feel more at ease if he was near him during a storm. The second he stepped onto the main deck, rain hit his face with the force of a cat o’ nines. He could barely see, but he gripped the railing to make his way across the deck. He spotted Henry by the main mast, trying to get a secure grip on one of the wet lines and hurried to his side to help.

“It’s right above us,” Henry yelled against the storm. Even so, John could barely understand him.

When a thunderclap so loud it made both of them wince tore through the noise of the rain, John could see what Henry meant. A bolt of lightning followed immediately; almost in unison with the thunder.

Henry’s hair was drenched and plastered to his forehead, and it was only the force of the line in his hands that stopped John from reaching out and brushing it back. He glanced around and could see Little and Blanky standing near the boats, trying to keep them secure along with some other men. John glanced down at Blanky’s peg leg and worried about it slipping on the wet planks. The sound of multiple men gasping and crying out tore his gaze away. 

“Henry!” John said, staring up at the mast. It was lit up in an eerie, beautiful purple light, fantastical in its bright glow. “St. Elmo’s fire,” John breathed, but he was sure it was too quiet for Henry to hear. This close to the mast, they could hear the sizzling of the electricity that had joined the sound of the rain. The glow sparkled like a dozen little bolts of lightning. The men had gone entirely silent.

John had travelled on a ship with a young naturalist once, and they’d experienced St. Elmo’s fire too, one night. It had been the only time John had ever seen it, until now. John still remembered the naturalist’s words well, even after all these years: “Everything is in flames, — the sky with lightning, — the water with luminous particles, and even the very masts are pointed with a blue flame.”

On this night, the glow looked much more purple than it had back then, and John couldn’t help but wonder about the reason. 

A commotion behind them made both John and Henry turn.

In the middle of the deck, steady and unmoving, as if the wind and the waves were forces she’d conquered and tamed, stood Silna. The sailors who were clinging to railings, riggings and masts to keep their balance stared at her as she raised her harpoon up towards the sky. She tipped it forward until it touched the glowing mast, and John watched as the lightning spread to the metal of the harpoon like an actual fire consuming whatever it came into contact with. 

Silna held the glowing harpoon up high and said words none of the sailors could understand, words that made one of them hiss “witch”. John didn’t manage to avert his eyes from the glowing harpoon to check who had uttered the word, but even so, he knew it would be one of Hickey’s crowd. 

After she’d finished her speech, her prayer, her incantation – whatever it was - she turned to call out to Dr. Goodsir. He listened to her words closely and nodded without question.

“Mr. Des Voeux,” Goodsir yelled across the deck. The first mate was somewhere near the bow, and John was impressed he could even hear the doctor. “The lances!” Goodsir exclaimed. “Give her the lances!”

“Why in God’s name-“ Des Voeux began, but a massive wave rocked the ship as if the heavy whaler was naught more than a tiny boat and shut him up.

“And the rest of the harpoons, Mr. Little,” Goodsir continued. 

John was curious to see the harpooneer’s reaction. He seemed a little more open-minded to him than Des Voeux, at least.

Unfortunately, John would not see Little’s reaction, and neither would anyone else. The very second Goodsir fell silent again, the entire deck lit up. For a few seconds, all the men were drenched in bright light, a stark silver hue to every face and every plank. It took John a moment to realise their mast had been struck by lightning. The Elmo’s fires on the mast burst when they were hit, creating something that looked and sounded like an explosion.

“Charles?” 

The panicked, helpless tone of Edward Little made John’s head whip around immediately. The light was gone again, but even in the darkness John could see that something wasn’t right. The harpooneer was swaying, flailing his arms as if he’d suddenly gone blind.

Des Voeux was by his side in an instant, perhaps even faster than John had made it across the deck to get to Henry.

The mate placed a hand on the harpooneer’s shoulder while his other one remained on the railing to keep himself upright, and the two men spoke, loud enough to hear each other but too quiet for John to understand over the rain. After just a few seconds, Des Voeux had turned around to call for Dr. Goodsir, who’d taken it upon himself to start collecting the lances on his own.

“Doctor!” Des Voeux shouted. “He can’t see!”

Goodsir looked up at the two, and through the mist of the rain, John could just about make out the frown on his features. He’d been in the process of collecting second mate Thomas’ lance and now stood, two lances in his hands. 

Des Voeux stared at him for a moment before reaching back for his own lance without a word and holding it out to Goodsir.

Silna, who’d been watching the men from her commanding position in the middle of the deck, stepped forward and took it herself. Goodsir handed her the other two. John watched as the woman crossed the lances over her harpoon, creating a star-like shape, and held them up towards the sky. The lances caught the purple glow from the still buzzing harpoon. The rain and storm whipped the woman’s dark hair into her face, but her unblinking gaze stayed focused on the weapons. The purple glow reflected in her eyes as she stared at it fearlessly. Whatever she was doing, John realised it was to help them. A non-Christian way to bless their weapons, perhaps. After all, many sailors believed St. Elmo’s fire to be a strong omen. Suddenly, she lifted her free hand to close it around the tip of one of the lances, touching the fire directly, which caused many of the sailors to gasp. 

John knew that the phenomenon was one of electricity rather than heat, but all the same, watching Silna move her hand down the length of the lance to extinguish the fire filled even him with a sense of strange calm and admiration. As if she were putting out the men’s fear along with the fire, the crew became more silent with every lance she touched. Not only the men calmed down; the storm did, too. By the time Silna had chased the fire away from her harpoon, the rain was light, and the wind was easing up as well. John could see the sky clearing on the horizon. 

The ship’s wild rocking slowly, slowly morphed into mild swaying. Soon, sailors were letting go of the lines and railings they’d been clutching to and started stumbling around to steady their legs again. John turned to Henry and rested a hand on his shoulder gently, the only gesture he let himself get away with in front of the men.

“Are you alright?” he asked softly. Henry nodded, but his eyes were absent, still cast up towards the sky.

“Are you?” the younger man asked back, finally meeting John’s eyes. When John confirmed, Henry looked up again.

“… I’ve never seen Elmo’s fires,” he said softly. “Have you?”

“Once. But I’ve been a sailor for far longer than you, dear Henry.”

Henry smiled softly and looked down at John again.

“They’re beautiful.”

The young man’s eyes were filled with such honest, radiant awe that John wanted nothing more than to take him in his arms. He gazed at Henry unwaveringly, with single-minded focus, to memorise every minute detail of the expression on his lover’s face. Instead of giving in to the true siren call of the younger man’s breath-taking beauty, he took a step back and nodded, his hand dropping from Henry’s shoulder.

“They are,” John answered, his voice incredibly soft. Henry blinked and blushed as if he’d only just noticed John’s intense gaze. Before either man could say anything else, the soft footfall of Pippin interrupted them. The boy tugged on John’s sleeve urgently.

“Mr. Bridgens, the doctor says you have to come help.”

John furrowed his brow and turned towards the boy.

“Help?” he asked quizzically. The boy nodded.

“In Mr. Little’s cabin. Because he can’t see none.”

John glanced at Henry apologetically before he hurried to the officers’ quarters. Little sat on his berth, his hands gripping the bedding on either side of himself as if the storm was still rocking the ship. His eyes were bound with thick, white bandages. Des Voeux and Goodsir stood in front of him, so there was barely any room for John in the cabin.

“Ah, Mr. Bridgens,” Goodsir said. “I’m sorry, I’m in need of an assistant tonight, and I wasn’t sure who else to call for.”

John gave the doctor a reassuring look and nodded. In all honesty, he felt strangely honoured the brilliant doctor had thought of him first. Focusing on their patient, he looked Little over in concern.

“... Did St. Elmo’s light cause this?” John asked, addressing Goodsir, who was pulling a small vial from his medicine pouch. 

“… Light, yes, Mr. Bridgens, but not St. Elmo’s light. I’ve seen cases like this before… It’s the lightning. If it strikes too close, and you’re unfortunate enough to be looking right at it, it can cause temporary blindness.”

“Temporary?” Des Voeux questioned sharply. Goodsir was busy counting the drops he poured from the vial. 

“Like snow blindness?” John asked. He’d been on voyages to colder climates in his life at sea, and he remembered how one of his crewmates had lost his sense of sight for a day.

Goodsir glanced up at him with a smile.

“Yes, much like snow blindness,” he confirmed. Turning to Des Voeux, the doctor frowned slightly. “… In the cases I’ve seen, the effects lasted only a few seconds, some minutes, but I’m afraid that the lighting hitting the fires directly caused a much brighter burst than I’ve encountered before.”

“What does that mean, man?!” Des Voeux snapped. “Will he see again or not?!”

Goodsir didn’t flinch at the mate’s aggressive tone, but he did seem a little uncomfortable. And, John realised after a glance into the doctor’s eyes, sympathetic.

“I’ve no reason to believe Mr. Little’s condition to be anything but temporary. Do not worry yourself, Mr. Des Voeux. Your friend will be just fine.”

“Fine?!” Des Voeux bit out. “He’s stone blind, doctor!”

It was Little himself this time who interrupted the mate.

“Charles,” he said softly, reaching forward blindly and knocking into the mate’s hipbone, which he quickly moved away from to find the man’s arm instead and give it an encouraging squeeze. “I trust Dr. Goodsir knows what he’s talking about.”

Des Voeux was still visibly unhappy, but he said no more. Goodsir turned to John again. 

“I have to go check on Mr. Weekes. He hit his head during the storm, and I’m afraid I’ll have to keep a close eye on him for the next couple of hours.” Goodsir lifted the small cup he’d poured some of the vial’s contents in. “The blindness should go away all on its own, but the condition can be an emotional strain. This will calm his nerves,” he explained. “There shouldn’t be any pain. If he reports any, stay with him and send Mr. Des Voeux to find me immediately,” he continued. “Warmth and darkness also wouldn’t go amiss. Perhaps you could boil a few towels to drape over the bandages.”

John listened closely to the doctor’s instructions and nodded along with them. 

“Thank you, doctor,” he said when Goodsir was finished and packed up his pouch again. Goodsir looked at him with surprise on his features that turned into a shy, sincere smile.

“No, thank you, Mr. Bridgens.” Before he left, the doctor turned to Little again. Des Voeux had meanwhile sat down on the berth, next to the harpooneer. “I’ll come check on you again in the morning, Mr. Little, but I expect you’ll have your vision back by then,” he said. Des Voeux only stared at the floor, but Little gave a polite smile and a small nod, in the general direction of Goodsir’s voice.

“Thank you, Dr. Goodsir,” he said. 

Goodsir left, and John lingered in the cabin for a moment, unsure where to begin. 

“… I’ll fetch some warm towels for you, Mr. Little,” he finally settled on. “I’ll be right back.”

Luckily, the towels he’d intended for Henry were still in his cabin and, he confirmed with a quick touch, still warm. He’d only have to remember to get fresh towels for Henry once Little had settled for the night. 

Of course, Des Voeux and Little didn’t know John happened to already have spare towels at hand. That became quite plain when he returned to the cabin. Once again, the habits and skills he’d developed as a steward proved to be both a blessing and a curse. On the bunk, visible through the door he’d left open, Des Voeux had taken Little’s hand. Their fingers were intertwined like lovers’, and the mate was sitting far closer to Little than he had been when John had left them.

They were talking to each other in soft, low tones, words that John couldn’t understand, spoken in a loving, soothing manner that John understood all too well. When Little lifted his and Des Voeux’s linked hands to press a gentle kiss to the back of the mate’s, John became truly uncomfortable with the thought of intruding on such a tender moment. While Des Voeux visibly tried not to smile, John quietly turned his back and left to boil new towels after all. 

_***_

_Present day_

John had told Henry about what he had observed between the harpooneer and the mate that very same evening, but he’d kept the similar secret he’d discovered about their captains to himself. Partly because he had no idea what to make of it yet, and partly because he knew Crozier was fond of Henry and that Henry looked up to him. John didn’t want to burden his young lover with this delicate secret when he was on such good terms with their captain.

When he glanced at Henry, he found his beloved already looking at him. Des Voeux was still needling Little across the table, and John and Henry exchanged a smile.

He wondered if the two men knew that John and Henry knew about them, but more than that, he wondered if the two in turn were aware of him and Henry as well. John had lived a long life only loving in secret, in the nooks and shadows of the world, but Henry wasn’t used to that kind of love. It was incredibly refreshing and endearing when the young man forgot himself and leaned in for a kiss while they were on deck, or when he spoke of John just a little too fondly in front of the other sailors, but it was dangerous as well. Everyone aboard knew what John was. It would only be natural for the men to jump to conclusions; conclusions that John desperately wanted to protect Henry from.

When John had forced the last bite of his stale ship’s biscuit down, he let his fingers briefly graze Henry’s shoulder as he got up. 

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be needed soon,” he said, giving a nod to both Little and Des Voeux. For Henry, he had a brief smile that he hoped conveyed what he couldn’t say. As he left, he heard Henry’s beautiful, carefree laugh, presumably at some quip Des Voeux had made, and knew he was in good hands.

He and Jopson served both captains their dinner in the great cabin that night. It had become somewhat of a habit for the two commanders to take their dinner together, which, John assumed, had happened upon Fitzjames’ insistence.

John had done his best not to let any of his looks linger for too long, not to give any indication of what he’d witnessed three weeks ago. He hadn’t seen anything similar since, and the fact that nothing seemed to have changed in the way the two captains treated each other made him question whether or not what he’d seen had endured.

That impression was going to change that very night. When he and Jopson were clearing the table, John observed that both captains retired to Crozier’s sleeping quarters. That in itself wasn’t strange. The captain’s desk was in there, and if the two commanders had something serious or private to discuss, it was the best place to do so while the two stewards were busy in the great cabin. John and Jopson worked in companionable silence, stacking the dishes on their silver tray and exchanging the occasional smile. John couldn’t help but notice that there was no bickering audible for once. When he turned away for a moment to make sure they’d gathered all the plates, he heard the door to the great cabin open. He saw the back of Jopson’s head for a moment before the younger man had disappeared, tray in hand. John huffed a fond smile to himself. If Des Voeux was the most tireless mate he’d ever encountered, Thomas Jopson was the most tireless steward. He would have gladly taken the tray to Mr. Diggle himself, but it was just like Jopson to wordlessly and casually take on someone else’s duties. John made a mental note to thank the other steward the next time he saw him and made his way to the door slowly. If he was walking slower than usual, and closer to the wall, it was only so he could perhaps at least catch a tail-end of the conversation between his two captains. What he heard, for a while, was silence. Just as he wondered whether the captains knew he was still here and were waiting for him to leave, Fitzjames’ soft voice carried through the old, tired wood of the cabin door. 

“… Francis,” he said, gentler than John had ever heard him. Again, there was only silence. “Francis,” the man said again, more insistently. Apparently this time, he got the desired reaction. “You need to sleep.”

John heard the scrape of a chair being pushed back and assumed Crozier was sitting at his desk. 

“Sleep?” he heard the captain huff. His voice was naturally louder than Fitzjames’, and dismissive. “That bed is a coffin, James.”

A third silence followed. Then, the floorboards creaked, as if someone was walking further away from the door. Indeed, when Fitzjames spoke again, his voice was softer yet, muffled by the new, larger distance, but still audible.

“Then it’s a coffin with me in it.”

John couldn’t help but smile. When the chair scraped once more, followed by the creaking floorboards of Crozier heading in the same direction Fitzjames had, John quietly took his leave.

As he slipped into his cabin and prepared the books for Henry’s next lesson, he thought to himself that he couldn’t keep this knowledge from his lover any longer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the young naturalist was Darwin, yes they really did experience Elmo's fires on the HMS Beagle voyage and yes, he really did say that... Sometimes these things write themselves


	11. There She Blows

**PEGLAR**

Henry had never been this far from home. Mr. Weekes, the carpenter from Erebus, had told him that morning that they were just off the coast of Japan. How he’d gotten that information before the rest of the crew Henry didn’t know, but the man had been nothing but reliable so far. 

A strange sort of routine had developed on the Terror. They hadn’t lowered for a whale in months, not since the Erebites had joined them, but they’d caught tortoises, which Mr. Diggle had swiftly turned into supper.

Henry had never eaten tortoise before, but John assured him it was common food for whalers and a welcome change from stale ship’s biscuit.

Other than this new culinary experience, nothing much happened. The whale hadn’t been sighted in many months. They were sailing at will, chasing a ghost on an invisible trail. Some of the men joked that Crozier could _smell_ the Tuunbaq and was following his nose.

His lessons with John were the only exciting thing that seemed to be left on this voyage. 

Although, in the past weeks, there’d been _one more_ exciting thing. 

When John had told him that he believed their captains to be lovers a few weeks ago, Henry hadn’t believed him at first. He’d spent the next few days watching the two whenever they were on deck together, with his notebook open on his lap so he could write whatever his muse threw his way while he was watching the captains interact. When his notebook filled with a number of new love poems, he decided John’s belief was true. 

John had also told him about the conversation he'd overheard weeks ago, before the storm. About the mysterious "Sophia" that Henry had never heard mentioned in any of the stories about Crozier.

During this period of curious observations of Crozier and Fitzjames, he found himself standing at the bow of Terror to watch the sunset once, seeking inspiration to finish his poem. It was another love poem, bittersweet and full of uncertainty.

When he heard the sound of footsteps behind himself, he quickly closed his notebook on instinct. He could tell it wasn't John; he would recognise his lover's footfall. When Captain Crozier himself stepped up next to him, Henry was grateful for his quick reflex. Not that the poem was in any way incriminating, but then, Crozier was a smart man, and perhaps Henry hadn't been as subtle about watching him and Fitzjames as he believed himself to be. 

Crozier didn't look at him. Instead, he stared out at the sunset as well. There was something strangely serene about him tonight. Serene, or solemn.

"Beautiful, isn't it, Mr. Peglar?" Crozier asked, breaking the silence.

Henry directed his gaze back to the setting sun. It was painting the sky and the clouds in a breathtaking combination of pink and gold.

"Yes, sir," he replied. "We don't often get the chance to appreciate beauty here," he added cautiously. He didn't want the captain to think he was complaining about the voyage, but luckily, Crozier just nodded thoughtfully.

Henry saw his arm move from the corner of his eye. The captain pulled something from his inner jacket pocket, something that looked like a locket. 

Henry tried to keep his eyes to himself and his focus on the sea, but when Crozier opened the locket, he couldn't help but steal a glance.

Crozier was staring down at it and Henry couldn't see much from this angle. 

He caught just the hint of a small painting inside, the hint of blonde hair, before the locket snapped shut again.

Crozier closed his fist around it and held it against his chest for a moment, and Henry suddenly got the strong urge to leave and grant the captain privacy for what was, undoubtedly, a very personal moment.

A few long, meaningful seconds passed, but before Henry could quietly turn away, Crozier lifted his hand and threw the locket towards the sun. It hit the ocean surface with a soft sound that was barely audible from the ship. Henry saw the locket glint once in the light before it sunk and became lost forever.

Crozier stood in silence for a moment, and Henry didn't dare move. He realised the captain was either completely detached from the present, or he trusted Henry to some degree; enough to be comfortable with letting him witness this. He tried to stay humble and not be too hopeful that it was the latter. 

Eventually, Crozier turned towards him, and Henry met his gaze uncertainly. 

There was a strange smile of pure melancholy on the captain's features.

"Ghosts of the past, Mr. Peglar," he said, that and nothing else. Henry didn't know what to do other than nod, though why he nodded, he didn't know.

Crozier barely seemed to notice. Without another word, he turned and walked away, the sun shining onto his back until he reached the latch to the officers' quarters and disappeared through it.

Henry spent all night thinking about the strange encounter. By morning, his only theory was that Crozier letting go of whoever had been in that locket had something to do with Fitzjames. 

He also decided that if their _captains_ were lovers, there was no reason why he shouldn’t spend another night in John’s cabin, but the older man denied him. “It’s not our captains I’m worried about,” he’d told him. “It’s your reputation. It's the other men.”

The crowd around Hickey seemed to grow every week. Henry didn’t know how the man did it; how he convinced their fellow sailors to join his little group of would-be mutineers, or how he seemed to know just who to approach. After all, he’d never tried to recruit him or John. It was Hickey’s crowd also who spat the word “witch” whenever Silna entered their field of vision, and who’d always complain the loudest about their captains. 

Strangely, it wasn’t Crozier’s obsession they were complaining about. Hickey, John had told him, didn’t want to sail back to England; he wanted to catch the whale for himself. He and his lackeys seemed to believe that in killing the infamous beast, they would gain fame and fortune and return to England as royalty, as heroes, as luminaries.

That alone would have been reason enough for Henry to not want to keep chasing the whale.

On a Wednesday morning, about nine months after the Erebites had joined the ship, Henry heard the dreaded, wonderful call for the first time nearly a year.

“There she blows!”

He ran onto deck along with many others, who soon began cheering when they saw a large whale not too far from the ship. Even though it had been months since they’d last lowered, the entire crew instantly fell into place and worked like a well-oiled machine. Captain Fitzjames rattled off the oarsmen for the whaling boats while Crozier climbed into the boat Edward Little had already stored his harpoon on, clearly eager to hunt after the long months of empty waters. Fitzjames had ordered Henry into the boat led by Charles Des Voeux. Their harpooneer was, to the crew’s surprise and some of the men’s dismay, the native woman. Of course, with the loss of Billy Strong all those months ago, it was a blessing to have a new harpooneer, but Hickey’s men obviously didn’t see it that way.

Fitzjames himself commanded Hartnell’s boat while the young Irving had to take on Mr. Hickey. Blanky and Tashtego had climbed into a boat together long before Fitzjames had ordered them to – the two had formed a partnership early on when they’d discovered how well they worked together on hunts. Finally, second mate Couch boarded Daggoo’s boat, and Des Voeux relayed the order to lower. 

In the whirlwind of events and everyone’s eagerness to get into the boats, Henry had forgotten to bid John goodbye. When he spun around while he and his crewmates were lowering the boat, he _just_ caught the hint of salt and pepper hair before it disappeared behind the railing. Immediately, Henry got a horrible, sinking feeling in his stomach. Trying not to let his emotions overpower his rationality, he focused on rowing, allowing his mind to go blank. He only came to again when Des Voeux’s voice rang out.

“Halt, lads!” 

Henry glanced around and furrowed his brow in confusion. The whale was still too far away to warrant stopping. 

Des Voeux caught his men’s confused looks and gave an exasperated sigh, his brow arched in annoyance as he nodded at Silna.

“Don’t ask me,” he huffed with a roll of his eyes. “She gestured for us to stop and I’m under strict orders to listen to her.”

If Silna took any note of the mate’s annoyance or the other men’s outright anger, she gave no indication of it. Her dark eyes were focused on the slick back of the whale as it resurfaced in the distance.

Henry held his breath, though he didn’t know why.

“Oh for goodness sake, Des Voeux, this is ridiculous!”

Henry winced at the challenging voice of Solomon Tozer, one of Hickey’s close confidantes, and the utter disrespect in it. 

The next moment happened in a flash and in slow-motion all at once, an oxymoron of speed and perception.

Des Voeux’s head whipped around, his lips already parting to shout Tozer into silence while, in perfect synchrony, Silna’s arm was suddenly raised above her shoulder, and before a single sound could make it past Des Voeux’s lips, her harpoon tore through the air and towards the whale as if she’d fired it with a shotgun.

Even though Henry watched with his own eyes as the harpoon lodged itself in the whale’s back, his mind struggled to believe it. He felt that it should have been logically impossible to hit the whale from such a distance, let alone with sufficient force to pierce its skin. 

The small whaling boat was dead silent for the split of a second before the whale began fleeing and the line leading from the harpoon back to their boat became taut. By pure muscle memory, the men began moving, winding the tow line around the loggerhead at the stern of the boat and pouring the water kegs over it to counteract the heat from the sudden friction as the whale began pulling them and the excess line started uncoiling rapidly. 

A split-second later, Little, whose boat was further ahead, landed a second hit with his harpoon, but with a sharp, unfortunate movement of the whale, the line broke. Henry could hear Crozier cursing even over the waves, the wind, and the distance. Des Voeux was smirking – at Little’s expense, Henry mused and chuckled softly.

Hartnell and Tashtego threw their harpoons nearly in unison, and just a few moments after Little. Daggoo followed soon after. As the whale weakened, and the men held fast onto the towing lines, the boats slowed ever so slightly from their wild, whale-powered dash, and the mates grabbed their lances to finish the creature off. 

Henry was completely out of breath, and it had very little to do with the physical labour of playing tug o’ war with a whale. He wished he’d spoken to Dr. Goodsir more, he wished he knew the words to express his utter astonishment and admiration to Silna, but as it was, he could only smile, bright and exhilarated. He couldn’t wait to describe the scene to John later. 

Unfortunately, a commotion started a moment later, and the sinking feeling Henry had gotten when they’d left the Terror returned instantly.

“Where’s Irving’s boat?!” Blanky shouted.

“Has anyone seen Mr. Irving’s boat?” “Where’s John’s boat?” “John!” “Can anyone see Irving’s boat?”

The chorus of voices overlapped and with its volume, the feeling of dread grew. 

Their sixth boat remained nowhere to be seen.

When the captains gave the order to row back to Terror, there was no glee about the catch, no cheering or showing off. They rowed in utter silence, save for their grunts of exertion, and towed the whale carcass back to the ship. 

Usually, John would stand by the railing to wait for Henry’s return. This time, Henry didn’t see him – or anybody else – from his boat.

He put all his focus into rowing. When they got closer, it became clear that their missing sixth boat was hanging from the ship’s davit as if it had never been lowered.

As soon as they reached the Terror, the captains ordered half the men to work on fixing the carcass to the side of the ship. 

Henry, as eager as he always was to help, was glad not to be named in that order. It meant that when his boat was pulled back onto deck, he got to watch the events that unfolded.

Among the men who helped heave the boats back onto board were some who’d left to hunt with Irving. The remaining oarsmen of Irving’s boat and the harpooneer Hickey all stood on deck with gloomy expressions.

Henry could not see Irving anywhere.

When he looked around, he spotted John, who was already on his way to his side. Henry frowned deeply and let his hand brush against his lover’s briefly.

“What is going on?” he whispered to John. 

“… We heard calls for help just a little while after you left,” his friend responded just as quietly. “Mr. Irving drowned.”

“ _Drowned?_ ” Crozier questioned loudly at that same moment, standing in front of Irving’s oarsmen who had, apparently, told him the same.

“Aye, sir,” said Hickey, stepping forward as if to announce himself the speaker of the men. "Some waves shook us, and he fell off the boat.”

“John Irving was an excellent swimmer, Mr. Hickey,” Crozier bit, his eyes sharp with distrust.

Hickey only gave a troubled frown.

“Must have hit his head, then. Poor lad.”

Crozier clenched his jaw and his gaze snapped away from Hickey to bore into the other men.

“And did anyone _see_ Mr. Irving fall off the boat, other than Mr. Hickey?”

None of the men would meet the captain’s gaze, shuffling on their feet and biting their lips sheepishly. 

“… Well, uh, no, sir. It was… just Mr. Hickey at the stern with him,” one of them finally spoke up. This made both captains turn to Hickey.

“What was _Mr. Hickey_ doing at the _stern_?” Fitzjames asked, his voice far cooler than Crozier’s, but just as sharp.

As a harpooneer, Cornelius Hickey’s position in the whaling boat _should_ have been at the bow oar right at the front, by his harpoon. Hickey did not seem perturbed. 

“I’d left my knife in the cuddy, sir,” Hickey answered confidently. “I was just getting it when Mr. Irving fell.”

“Convenient, that,” Henry heard Des Voeux mutter. It seemed the first mate, too, had suspicions about Hickey. 

Henry didn’t dare think what the mate seemed to be thinking. Hickey was many things, but surely, they weren’t sailing with a murderer. Hickey certainly didn’t look like he had just killed a man. His gaze was calm and confident, his body relaxed and his words sounded casual and earnest.

“What about you shipskeepers?!” Crozier called, spinning around towards the other men, having clearly lost his patience with Hickey. “Who was on watch here?!”

“… Golding, sir,” somebody answered. 

It was then that Henry truly began fearing that command was right in their suspicions.

“Golding!” Fitzjames called, even though, Henry thought, the captain must have known that questioning the ship’s boy was pointless. Bobby Golding would say whatever Cornelius Hickey needed him to.

“Aye, sir.” 

“Did you see what happened, boy?”

The young man shrugged – rather unconcerned, considering a life had been lost. 

“Mr. Irving fell off the boat.”

Somehow, Henry almost expected Hickey to grin, but the harpooneer’s face remained unmoved. 

“… I did try to haul ‘im back up, sirs,” Hickey remarked, speaking up again. “But the waves dragged him right under.”

Crozier glared daggers at the man, while Fitzjames turned to face the crew.

“Men, see to the whale. Those of you who were on Mr. Irving’s boat will be questioned, starting with you, Mr. Hickey,” Fitzjames said, before dismissing them.

Henry turned to John, who was watching Little and their two captains leave with Mr. Hickey. When John noticed Henry’s gaze, he sighed and squeezed the younger man’s arm briefly.

“… Take care of yourself, Henry,” the steward said very softly. “I think Mr. Hickey just proved that the creatures here on Terror can be just as dangerous as the one in the sea.”

“… You could let me stay with you in your cabin,” Henry couldn’t help but say, only half teasing, but he regretted it when John gave him a saddened, mirthless smile.

“… There is nothing I wouldn’t do to protect you, Henry, you know that,” John said, and Henry nodded instantly.

“I know,” he said quickly. “I was only teasing.”

“Mr. Peglar!” Des Voeux’s voice rang out across the deck, and Henry noticed that the men had already rigged a plank to the side of the ship. “You and Mr. Gibson are on the cutting stage. _Today,_ if you please.”

Henry blushed slightly and gave John a quick smile, which his friend returned.

“Go on, you’re needed,” the older man whispered. Henry wished he could feel those words against his own lips, but out here in front of the others, he had to settle for a small nod goodbye.

Cutting into a whale was awful, gruelling work. The plank Henry and Gibson were standing on was soon slick with blood, and the monkey belts securing them to the ship cut into their waists. Henry’s fingers went numb from clutching his spade, which also became slick with blood and blubber, and his wrist, arm and shoulder ached from driving the blade into the whale’s flesh again and again. Together with Gibson, he cut dozens of long strips of skin and blubber from the carcass. The other men hauled the strips aboard and began slicing them into smaller pieces on deck. When they started boiling the chunks of blubber down to oil, Henry could _smell_ it from the cutting stage, even over the already unescapable odour of the dead whale directly below.

It was a big whale they’d caught, a sperm whale, which would have usually put the crew in the highest of spirits, but tonight, with Irving’s death, the work just felt grim and draining. Gibson and he didn’t strip the whale of all its flesh by far, but Des Voeux called them back onto deck around nightfall. While the others were beginning to carry their new barrels of oil down into the cargo hold, Des Voeux allowed Henry and Gibson to clean themselves and go straight to supper afterwards.

Gibson let Henry have the basin first, which he was too tired to question. His hands were blistered and raw, and the warm water stung. When Henry had somehow managed to fumble with his soap enough to clean his body, the water was tinted red, but he felt better. Clean, at least. He was tempted to skip supper so he could rest straight away, but he also knew it would be prudent to get his hands seen to by Dr. Goodsir.

On his search for the doctor, he saw Cornelius Hickey on deck, standing at the railing. The harpooneer seemed lost in thought, staring down at the whale carcass. Henry took the fact that he wasn’t chained up in the hold to mean that the captains didn’t have enough grounds to accuse him of the horrific act of murder, and that perhaps, Irving’s death had been a tragic accident after all.

Henry knew those thoughts were too sanguine even for him. He knew it well enough that when Hickey began to turn, he quickly disappeared below deck again before the harpooneer could spot him.

When he finally found Goodsir, the doctor told him, to Henry’s delight, that he was rather busy tonight due to the long workday in the sun weighing on some of the men’s health. His assistant, John Bridgens, he said, would know what to do. Naturally, Henry made his way to John’s berth with a wide grin on his face.

To get to him, Henry decided to take a small detour through the hold to avoid the mess hall and all the other men. This decision, like so many others on the Terror, would prove to be rather fateful.

At first, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The cargo hold always had a lot of strange noises echoing off the walls, from the groans of the heavy barrels to the glugging of the oil. It wasn’t until Henry very clearly heard a human voice that he stilled. Cautious and curious in equal measures, he peeked around the big barrel to his left and blushed deeply when he realised what he was looking at.

Propped up against the wall of barrels was First Mate Des Voeux, steadying himself on it with one hand, while his other was buried in what Henry was sure was Edward Little’s hair. The harpooneer was kneeling in front of the half undressed first mate, and the movements of his head, along with Des Voeux’s softs whimpers made it obvious what he was doing. Des Voeux tossed his head back against the barrels with a dull thud and moaned out Little’s name, which triggered an amused, fond sound from the man in front of him.

“Come here, come up here, let me kiss you,” Des Voeux breathed after a moment, tugging at Little’s hair insistently. The harpooneer complied and pinned Des Voeux to the barrels by the hips after scrambling to get up. While the two men kissed, Little’s hand slowly snuck between them and Des Voeux gasped into the kiss after a moment, his hips canting forward.

“E-edward,” he moaned again. A few moments later, his body went rigid against the taller man.

Henry heard the harpooneer chuckle lowly, sounding just as breathless as Des Voeux. For a few beats, they both went silent, save for their heavy breathing. Little leaned his forehead against Des Voeux’s and gazed into his eyes for a moment before kissing him again softly.

Just as Henry was trying to figure out a way to sneak past them without alerting them to his presence, the harpooneer spoke.

“Come with me, Charles. I beg of you.”

Henry stilled, his brow furrowing as he strained to hear Little’s soft voice.

“… Don’t ask this of me, Edward,” Des Voeux responded after a brief pause. “…Would you truly abandon our captains? Leave them to the creature’s whims?” 

“ _No,_ ” the harpooneer said immediately. “No. I wouldn’t leave my captain, you know that… If someone had asked me the same question six months ago, I would have said the exact same thing you have been saying to me.”

Des Voeux scoffed at that, nudging Little back slightly. The harpooneer went, but he didn’t look very happy about it.

“Six months?” the mate echoed. “So what changed?”

Little gave a desperate, mirthless laugh.

“For all your witticisms, you can be remarkably slow,” the harpooneer said softly, and when the mate instantly glared daggers at him, he stepped forward again to cradle the smaller man’s face in his hands. “Madness begets more madness, Charles… We both know what happened to John Irving wasn’t an accident.” Little swallowed, lowering his gaze. His shoulders had begun to shake slightly. “You… You are First Mate. Hickey may just as well come after you next.”

“Or you,” Des Voeux deadpanned. “I assure you, I can take care of myself, Edward.”

“Listen to me,” Little said, exasperated. “If there is one man in the world who can defeat that whale, I know it is our captain. And I would proudly stand by his side - and proudly lay down my life - to assist him!” he said, with the utmost dedication and sincerity. The declaration hung heavily in the hold for a few tense moments. Then, Little’s voice went soft again. “But I cannot lose _you_.”

Des Voeux’s brow arched and he took a breath, presumably to launch into another sharp rebuke, but Little spoke before he could.

“I’m in love with you, Charles.”

Henry felt his eyes widen at the same time as the mate’s did. He had the brief, anxious thought that with Des Voeux, this could go either way. It wasn’t easy to read Charles Des Voeux. It took a good five seconds for the young mate to react in kind, and they felt like an eternity even to Henry, who was very much suffering along with Little.

When Des Voeux suddenly grabbed the harpooneer’s shirt and pulled him into a deep, passionate kiss, Henry smiled. It felt so unlikely for a love story to have a happy ending at sea, and witnessing one, after being lucky enough to get his own, put him in an incredibly elevated mood despite his fatigue.

The two lovers were fully immersed in their kiss and Henry took the opportunity to finally sneak past the gap in the barrel stacks, still smiling. His expression didn’t change the rest of the way to John’s cabin. 

The steward wasn’t there yet, but Henry let himself in and sat on the berth, enjoying the faint, familiar scent of his lover. His nostrils were attuned enough to it by now that he could make it out even over the nauseating smell of the processed whale that hung heavily in the air. Almost as soon as he inhaled John’s scent and got comfortable on his berth, he remembered his exhaustion.

The next thing he knew, he blinked his eyes open to the feeling of something cool and soothing on his sore hands. He’d been asleep, he realised, but for how long, he didn’t know. When John noticed he was awake, he stilled his movements for a moment and smiled at him gently. Henry smiled back drowsily and recognized the tub in John’s hand as a soothing salve– made with whale oil, ironically.

“Mhm,” Henry mumbled and sat up more, even as his eyes slid closed again. “The whaler's ouroboros…”

John chuckled softly at his semi-nonsensical thought, which Henry appreciated, because he was well aware that his tired mind was without its usual edges. 

All he could think about was the ouroboros tattoo on John’s shoulder blade. He wanted to ask to see it, but the gentle movement of John lightly spreading the salve across his palms lulled him into a peaceful serenity.

He also wanted to ask about the act he’d seen Little perform, and the thought of trying it with John sent a warm tingle down his spine. Regardless of his wants, he slid in and out of alertness when John continued seeing to his hands. Something about it was almost hypnotic. After a while, both his hands were wrapped in soft, white bandages.

His eyes opened again with a gasp when he felt John’s hand brush gently over his cock, which he hadn’t even realised was semi-erect.

“Would you like me to tend to this too?” John asked him softly.

Henry shivered slightly and nodded, his eyes closing again when the older man crouched in front of him to tug the laces of his trousers open and took him in hand. Henry sucked his lower lip into his mouth when John began stroking him, slow and leisurely, and the pleasure both woke him up a little and lured him further towards sleep. He bit his lip harder to remind himself not to make any sounds, but he couldn’t stop his soft whimpers entirely. When he managed to open his eyes again for a moment, he found John staring at him with the same intense focus he always seemed to get when he was watching Henry in the throes of pleasure. The younger man had long since realised that hearing John praise him and feeling John’s eyes on him were two experiences that heightened the pleasure of every single touch.

John, he knew, had realised the same.

“You’re getting so good at keeping quiet, my love,” the older man muttered to him softly. “One day, I want to hear every sound I can coax from your beautiful lips, fairest Ganymede,” he added in a low whisper. “But you’re doing so well for me now. I know it’s hard to be quiet, love… You make me so proud.”

Henry gasped softly as he let the words wash over him, more soothing than any salve could ever be. As his climax approached, his eyes squeezed shut again and a tear fell from his lashes at the strain of keeping quiet. John reached up with his free hand to gently wipe the tear away, and Henry spilled over his fist with a muffled cry.

John smiled up at him gently as he caressed him through the aftershocks until Henry got too over-sensitive and tried to close his legs instinctively. John let go immediately and stood up to kiss him softly. Henry was still slightly breathless, but he kissed back lazily, his fatigue ten times worse than before in the pleasant afterglow of his orgasm. Still, when John broke the kiss, Henry couldn’t stop himself from glancing down to see his lover’s own erection bulging between his legs. He reached up eagerly to unfasten the laces, only to pause and frown at his thickly bandaged hands. 

John laughed softly and caught them in his own to press a gentle kiss to each of them, even though Henry couldn’t feel it through the wrappings.

“It’s alright, love,” John murmured softly and let go of Henry to undo his trousers himself. Gazing down at the younger man, John pulled his length out of his smalls and jacked himself lazily to the sight of Henry on his berth.

Henry blushed under his gaze and dropped his own to watch John’s cock. In this position, Henry was almost level with it, and suddenly he thought of the cargo hold again.

“… John,” he muttered softly. He could still feel his blush high on his cheeks and he wasn’t expecting it to go away any time soon. “Will you let me taste you, some day?” 

John’s eyebrows rose in surprise and Henry noticed that the hand on his length picked up its pace. John’s chest was rising and falling in a rapid, irregular way that Henry had learned meant he was close.

Instead of answering Henry’s question, the older man stepped closer to the bunk and hooked a finger under Henry’s chin to tilt his head up slightly.

“Open your mouth.”

Henry’s eyes widened and his face grew even hotter. His eyes darted down to John’s erection again and he hurried to comply. His own sound of surprise was louder than John’s sound of pleasure when the older man rested the tip of his cock against Henry’s tongue and resumed stroking himself. Catching on immediately, Henry stuck it out and stiffened it, beyond eager.

John smiled down at him with pure affection in his eyes and moved his hand faster, his other hand cupping Henry’s jaw gently to angle his head as he needed. A moment later, he spilled straight onto Henry’s tongue. When Henry heard his stifled groan, he found himself wishing that he would one day get to hear all of John’s sounds as well. Then, his entire focus was drawn to the sensation and taste of his lover’s release. Most of it dripped down his chin, which he assumed had been John’s intention, to avoid overwhelming him with the new, unfamiliar experience, but Henry caught what he could with his tongue and pulled back to swallow it curiously. He realised straight away that there was no way of describing the taste. He could think of nothing to compare it to. It was neither pleasant nor unpleasant, though the warmth of it surprised him. It lingered in his mouth, and when he swallowed again, he decided that there was something about it that reminded him of ocean air.

The sound of John chuckling warmly startled him out of his thoughts. The steward crouched down again to gently wipe Henry’s chin clean with his handkerchief.

“Even the taste of me, you study and analyse as if it were a book,” the old man stated fondly. Henry smiled and suppressed a yawn. 

“Certainly a very engaging book, John,” he muttered with a small grin, which John returned. Henry suppressed another yawn and changed his expression to a more serious one. “Will you let me stay with you tonight?” he whispered, frowning when John immediately looked like he was about to reject him. “We’ll be careful,” Henry insisted softly. “The men are all exhausted today. No one will even notice if I’m not in my hammock…” 

John’s frown only deepened at his words. Henry could see in his eyes how much he wanted to say yes, but in the end, he shook his head with an almost agonised look on his face.

“I’m sorry, Henry. You know how much it pains me to deny you, but… I won’t risk it. Especially now that Mr. Hickey’s…misdeeds may be escalating.” He lifted a hand to cup Henry’s cheek gently, stroking his thumb across his skin as if the smooth the dejected look out of his face. “I promise you, when we’re back home, you will sleep in my bed for as many nights as you want.”

Henry nodded after a moment, sad but accepting. He knew how much John worried about him, and the last thing he wanted was to make the steward’s fears worse by insisting to spend the night with him. 

He got up off the bed on slightly wobbly legs and leaned in for a long, gentle kiss, before pulling back with a melancholic smile. 

“Goodnight, John,” he said quietly and brushed his hand against his lover’s one last time.

“Goodnight, Henry.”

***

The next morning, Edward Little and Charles Des Voeux were gone, and so was one of the boats. 

Henry wasn’t surprised. 

Although Little and Des Voeux were both intelligent men, and trying to fend for themselves on a whaling boat with just two occupants was hardly a safe or sound decision, Henry knew that if there was any one man that could be trusted to navigate them to safety it was Charles Des Voeux. His orienteering skills were second only to Crozier himself.

Command didn't have much time to be furious, and part of Henry felt like maybe Crozier and Fitzjames were secretly relieved their seconds were safe. Henry certainly was.

He was glad that two good, honest men he’d come to think of as friends were far away from the Terror when the events of the following days unfolded. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day, I will shut up about how Edward's line from the show ("You would leave our captain with that devil?") is basically Charles' line from the book ("What about Captain Crozier and Dr. Goodsir? Are you just going to abandon them? Leave them to Cornelius Hickey's whims?")
> 
> But today is not that day.


	12. O' Bury Me Not In The Deep, Deep Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from an old shanty, link in the notes of the last chapter

**BRIDGENS**

John awoke to the smell of smoke and the sounds of screams. Immediately, his thoughts went to Henry. 

In his youth, John had fallen into the darkest of mind-sets. A long, damp and dark November in his soul had made even his bright mind grey and hopeless. He’d been miserable with the state of his existence, and the state of the world had made him shiver with disgust. He hadn’t known sunshine and had only seen shadows everywhere he looked, not yet realising that sunshine was a requirement for those shadows to exist.

That morning, hours after he’d sent Henry away to his hammock, that mind-set returned for a brief, brutal moment. A moment in which he was sure he would lose Henry because he hadn’t allowed him to stay, a moment in which he saw only the worst possible outcome; the one where he and Henry were separated because of his own choices and would never be able to return to one another. 

He sat up straight and banished those thoughts back to his past where they belonged. Being miserable would not help him get to Henry through whatever was going on outside.

He stumbled out of his cabin and almost collided with Fitzjames. In his panic, he barely registered that the captain had come out of Crozier’s quarters instead of the sick bay where he’d been supposed to be sleeping.

“Mr. Bridgens,” Fitzjames said urgently, his eyes wide with dread. “Make sure all the officers are up and get on deck,” he ordered before continuing down the companionway, and John, who wanted to scream that he had to find his beloved, nodded and started pounding on cabin doors. 

Little and Des Voeux were nowhere to be seen. John almost knocked on Irving’s door before he remembered there was no need. With a frown, he kept going until every single officer was aware and awake. 

John didn’t waste any more time. While the officers hurried up through the latch, John ran through the blubber room to get to the crew’s lodgings. He still didn’t know where the smoke was coming from, but when he reached the mess hall, he saw.

By the archway that led to the galley, or rather, the stove that served as the galley, a small storage space had been cleared for Silna, so that the woman could have a sleeping place away from the men. The fire was eating its way through the mess hall, starting from Silna’s makeshift cabin. John’s blood ran cold and he tried to see through the flames somehow. 

“Is somebody there?” he shouted, covering his mouth with his sleeve when he inched closer to the fire and the smoke wafted into his face. 

“Bridgens!” a voice behind him yelled. John turned and was faced with his captain, with the man he’d known, once upon a time, Captain Francis Crozier, who put his crew before everything else. “Get on deck, dammit! The smoke will snuff you out before you know it!” 

“Sir, the woman…“ John called back, gesturing in the direction of the galley. Crozier frowned and followed his gaze for a moment, before shaking his head.

“I want all my men on deck, Bridgens,” he repeated sharply. “I’ll take care of the woman. Get yourself to safety  _ now. _ ”

“Captain-“

“That is an  _ order,  _ Mr. Bridgens!” Crozier shouted, and finally, with his thoughts returning to Henry, John nodded. There was no way past the fire here. If Henry was still in the crew’s lodgings, John’s only chance was the latch.

When he got onto deck, he started scanning the group of men immediately. There were far, far too few of them, and John’s inner agony rose, until he spotted the head of soft brown hair he’d come to love so much. Henry was looking around just as frantically, looking for John as desperately as John was looking for him, and the older man pushed through the crowd to get to his lover. The second he could reach him, he grabbed his shoulder and pulled him in tightly, the other men be damned. Henry stiffened for the split of a second before he recognised his embrace and returned it with the same vigour. 

Before either man could say anything, Fitzjames’ voice sounded out over the deck.

“Men! Grab the water kegs from the whaling boats, and the line tubs too! Anything you can fill with water! The fire hasn’t reached the oil yet, and we have to kill it before it does! Do you understand?!”

“Aye sir!” came a chorus of voices, and as if stung by a dozen bees, the men who had thus far been immobilised by shock jumped into action. Blindly, John followed along, clutching Henry’s hand until he was handed a bucket and had to let go. The men formed a human chain, as well as they could with their low numbers, and started getting the water down the latch as quickly as they could. John made up the front of the line along with Fitzjames. As they emptied yet another line tub over the flames, a brief clarity in the room revealed Crozier struggling against the flames in the galley, tightly holding onto the small figure of Silna. 

“Francis!” Fitzjames shouted and threw off his overcoat without second thought. Before John could so much as lift his hand to stop the young captain, he had run straight into the flames. 

Well aware that there was nothing he could do to help his captains except to keep pouring, John grabbed the next bucket in a trance and stared into the flames, desperate to make out their figures.

In moments of life and death, seconds can feel like years. That, Henry had argued once when they’d been discussing mortality, may be the reason man has the time to relive his whole life in his moments of death. As John and his crewmates kept tipping buckets of water over the burning wood of their home, he felt he finally understood what his young friend had meant. 

After many, many years, Francis Crozier stepped out of the smoke. His face was covered in ashes and his clothes were burnt. His arm was supporting Lady Silna, who seemed barely strong enough to walk, but her eyes were sharp and attentive as ever. And finally, supporting her from the other side, was James Fitzjames. John breathed a sigh of relief.

He noted, with amusement despite the situation, that it had taken a fire to finally ruffle the young captain’s appearance – and that he would gladly spend hours later assisting him as his steward in washing and taming his tangled, ash-covered hair.

Fitzjames eased his arm away from Silna when Goodsir stepped forward and let the doctor take the weakened woman away. Behind him, the fire was slowly losing its fight against the buckets and tubs of water. 

Fitzjames smiled, easy and honest in a way that made him look younger than John had ever seen him, and turned to Crozier. He parted his lips to say something to the other captain, but a horrible, jarring noise cut him off before the first syllable could make it past his lips.

Seconds could feel like years, but they were still seconds in the end, and man was powerless against time. John’s mind watched for years as the archway above Fitzjames broke and collapsed, while his body only had two seconds to react.

Two seconds, it turned out, was not long enough. Not for him, and not for any of the other men around him. Man was powerless against time.

The heavy, smouldering wood crashed down onto their captain and buried him within two seconds; within many, many years. 

Those years ended with a scream that John could not have attributed to anyone if he’d tried. He was sure every single man felt like screaming in that moment. 

He and Crozier were the first two to move. Crozier tried to lift the still glowing wood with his bare hands while John hurriedly grabbed Fitzjames’ discarded overcoat to bat at the embers.

“James!” Crozier yelled. The word was distorted in John's ears, dull, and yet the agony in his captain's voice was as piercing as the sharpest harpoon. John kept stifling the embers until the coat fell from his hands and he crouched next to Crozier to lift the ruined archway. By their sides, Jopson and Blanky joined in, pushing and grunting and shouting, until they could see their captain’s head. Someone shouted for Goodsir.

Fitzjames’ eyes were closed. 

  
  


***

  
  


John felt as pale as the bedsheets Fitzjames was resting on. After they’d managed to free him of all the burning wood, they’d seen the damage. Dr. Goodsir had been working tirelessly for the past hour, but the image of the young captain’s body was still as gruesome as it had been before. Much of his left side was burnt black, and there was a massive gash across his scalp. Blood had seeped down his face from it and was drying in his brow and the crease of his still closed eyelids.

John did what he could to assist the doctor, but he couldn’t stop staring at the captain in horror.

On the edge of Fitzjames’ bed sat Captain Crozier. He, too, had been staring at the younger man for the past hour. His hand was placed on the covers right next to the other man’s, but they weren’t touching. 

In the only other bed of the sick bay, the largely bandaged body of the harpooneer Silna finally stirred. 

Goodsir gave John a quick look and John managed a nod, taking over from where the doctor had been cleaning the many wounds on Fitzjames’ side of long splinters that had stabbed his flesh like blades.

He didn’t know how many of these nature’s knives he'd removed before Goodsir returned from Silna’s side. John almost didn’t recognise him when he looked up. He had never seen the kind doctor’s face look so blank, nor his warm eyes look so empty.

“Captain Crozier,” Dr. Goodsir said. His voice sounded almost unnaturally even. “I know how the fire started.”

Crozier looked up at that for the first time since they’d brought Fitzjames to the sickbay. 

“… Mr. Hickey found ambergris in our catch,” Goodsir continued quietly. 

John’s hand stilled entirely. In all his years as a whaler, he had never once been aboard a ship that had discovered ambergris. The  _ floating gold,  _ as the men called it, was incredibly rare, and incredibly valuable. Produced in the intestines of sperm whales, the substance would either be excreted and float upon the ocean until some incredibly lucky sailor found it, or it would still be inside the whale when it died. In selling even the smallest amount of it to the right people, the leading perfumers in the world, a commoner could become a gentleman with wealth equal to some royals’.

John turned to Silna as Goodsir kept talking. She stared back at him with her dark, serious eyes.

“Silna noticed the smell and saw Mr. Hickey carrying a barrel of it past the galley, presumably to store it somewhere only he could find it.”

“She would have alerted us,” Crozier said quietly.

Goodsir nodded. 

“He caught her watching and locked her in the galley… Then he set the fire.”

For a few beats, the sickbay was silent save for Fitzjames’ irregular, far too rasping breaths. At least he was breathing, John reminded himself.

Then, Crozier got up from the bed, his body tense and his face solemn.

“Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me,” he said without looking at either of them. 

When the captain left the sickbay, John wondered how on earth he would go about confronting Hickey without either Des Voeux, Little or Irving. Their once proud command had dwindled to a scary minority. John shook his head at himself. His focus should be Fitzjames, not Hickey. He picked the tweezers back up and silently started ridding his captain’s broken body of the remaining wood.

The men took their supper on deck that night. The mess hall was unusable. Five men had died in the fire, and a further three had been injured, not including their captain. John had no idea what Goodsir’s prognosis was. He’d been too afraid to ask. But Fitzjames was still breathing, he reminded himself. He kept reminding himself.

While sitting on the deck next to Henry, John learned that Cornelius Hickey had been chained in the hold. None of the men knew what Captain Crozier planned to do with him, and John suspected, even though he did not want to be burdened with such knowledge, that the severity of Hickey’s punishment would depend on whether or not Fitzjames survived. 

He was still breathing.

John couldn’t stomach much more than a single ship’s biscuit that night.

Much of the crew’s lodgings had fallen victim to the flames as well, but even if they hadn’t John would not have sent Henry away a second time. The two men spent the night in John’s cabin, tightly holding onto each other’s hands and not sleeping a wink.

The shadows had returned to John’s mind and plagued him all night, but the next day began with a hesitant streak of sunlight.

Pippin, who had luckily stayed far away from the fire, came to John and Henry with the news that Captain Fitzjames was awake. 

Awake and breathing. 

John left his cabin immediately, despite the ungodly hour, after pressing a kiss to Henry’s brow and telling him to rest some more. 

When he reached the sickbay he was unsure whether or not to knock. The concern over such a silly formality seemed laughable, considering the circumstances, but John ended up knocking either way. It was Crozier’s voice that told him to come in.

John remembered the first time he’d seen Fitzjames; the proud, elegant man, untouched by the sea and its cruelties. That was not the man lying before him that day. Fitzjames’ eyes were barely open, and what should have been white in them was streaked with red. His hair that had once seemed to defeat logic in its constant perfection was shaved to the root where the gash was. Goodsir had worked nearly all night to stitch the wound as neatly as anyone possibly could have. If Fitzjames recovered, John was sure the wound would barely even scar, so masterful were Goodsir’s stitches. His stomach sunk all the way to the ocean floor when he realised quite how heavy the “ _ If _ ” had felt in his head.

Lying before him was a man with grey-ish skin and coal-black burns. A half-paralysed man with blood in his eyes. A man who struggled with every single, agonised breath he took.

Lying before him was not a man who would recover. 

John's throat went so tight he could not even swallow past it. What had looked like a streak of sunlight moments earlier, he realised, was the last light of dusk before eternal darkness.

Crossing the room silently, he stood on the opposite side of the bed to where Crozier was sitting. This time, Crozier was holding Fitzjames’ hand. 

John wanted to reach for the other, but when he looked down, he realized nothing but a black stump was left of it. 

Normally, silence was unheard of aboard a ship, especially a whaler, but this morning, it seemed even the crashing of the waves was soundless.

When Fitzjames spoke, his hoarse, grating voice made John’s own throat ache in sympathy. 

“… Francis,” the man panted softly. Each breath he took when he spoke rattled, and that rattling became the loudest sound in the room. “I d-do… I do not wish to be – buried at sea,” The young captain gasped and choked for a moment until he managed a few desperate, dry coughs. “I want – I don’t want to sink, Francis… I want to…to drift. I want to see the sky.”

Crozier’s face was red with emotion and his eyes were glassy – as glassy as John’s.

“No,” the captain whispered, his voice harsh with unshed tears. “No, James. There won’t be a burial. I forbid you to die. I forbid it.”

Fitzjames’ chapped pale lips pulled into the smallest smile, even as a tear fell from his reddened eyes.

“I’ve questioned enough of your orders in my life, I think,” he breathed. His eyes closed and more tears spilled down his cheeks. “I – I shall try to follow this one.”

John tried to swallow again as his own tears flowed freely and dampened his beard.

“… Mr. Bridgens,” Fitzjames muttered weakly. His left shoulder twitched as if he were trying to reach for John, but the burnt remains of his arm didn’t move an inch. “Thank you.” The young captain managed a smile. His voice was completely honest, stripped bare of any formality and posture. “For your company.”

John reached down to rest his fingers on Fitzjames’ shoulder. He didn’t know if the man could even feel his touch. He swallowed a third time.

“It was an honour serving you, sir,” he brought out. He squeezed the younger man’s shoulder gently. No, the captain didn’t seem to feel anything. “You’re a good man.”

Fitzjames’ eyes closed again. John felt as though he was slipping away from them like sand inside an hourglass with every passing second. Just when he thought the captain’s horrible, rasping breathing was about to stop for good, Fitzjames spoke one more time.

“Francis…” he whispered. His eyelids twitched, but he did not manage to open them again. “P-promise me. I need you to promise me… Promise me to live. You still have a life, Francis. Live it… Live it for me… Don’t…give it to the whale.” Fitzjames started shivering, and Crozier immediately shifted closer to him to pull the blanket up around his shoulders, as if it were merely the cold ailing the younger captain. “… Go back home,” Fitzjames whispered, his body curling towards Crozier’s touch like it was following muscle memory. “End this madness…”

Crozier took a shaky breath that did nothing to stop his tears. They fell from his cheeks and landed on Fitzjames’ nightshirt.

“James…” Crozier began desperately, and it was clear that he had no idea what to say. Fitzjames smiled again; a fractured, abject smile.

“… Will you deny your beloved his dying wish?”

Maybe those were the words that made Crozier break, maybe it was the way Fitzjames’ breathing kept getting shallower. 

He gave a single sob, and his tears fell into Fitzjames’ hair when he leaned over him and pressed his lips to the younger captain’s. John understood painfully clearly that Crozier didn’t care anymore who saw. This was to be his final kiss goodbye.

“Of course not,” Crozier whispered against Fitzjames’ lips. “I promise it, James. I promise you.”

Crozier rested his forehead against Fitzjames’ and clutched his hand tighter. His free hand began stroking the younger man’s hair. John could see that he was listening to Fitzjames’ breath. He was doing the same.

When it stopped, it didn’t feel real. John kept waiting for a cough, or a gasp. He kept waiting for the rattling breaths to start again.

They never did.

“… Mr. Bridgens,” Crozier said softly. John had never heard his voice sound so weak. His head was still resting against Fitzjames’. His eyes were closed. 

“Yes, sir?” John whispered. His own voice was raw with tears.

“Tell Mr. Honey to start making a coffin.”

***

It took Thomas Honey three days to make James Fitzjames’ coffin. Crozier ordered him to caulk it. He ordered him to make a coffin that would float until the very wood it was made of withered.

He ordered him to carve James Fitzjames’ initials into the lid of it. 

In the early morning of the first of those three days, Crozier told his crew to change course. He told them to turn around.

He told them they were going back to England. 

There was no more mention of the whale.

On the second day, John Weekes, who had been injured in the fire, died. The other two men who had been hurt were on the way to recovery. Silna’s state was still critical. Goodsir worked tirelessly, and so did John. He knew that the only thing he could still do for his late captain was to make sure his death wasn’t in vain.

On the third day, Cornelius Hickey learned that they had changed course. John didn’t know how, but he assumed one of the men who were still sympathetic to him had told him. 

The small harpooneer demanded to speak with the captain.

Captain Crozier, when he was told of the man’s request, said that Hickey could die in the hold without ever speaking to another human being again for all he cared. John later saw Jopson relaying the Captain’s message to Hickey. He seemed to get great satisfaction from doing it. It seemed Hickey had gotten under the skin of even the gentlest souls on Terror. 

Crozier had a man he trusted guarding the hold at all times now, to make sure none of Hickey’s potential co-conspirators would free him. John wasn’t sure if there were any left after the fire, but he admired the captain’s caution.

One of the captain’s trusted men was, as it turned out, his own dear Henry. The young man was visibly proud to have proven himself in the captain’s eyes in their time at sea and took his duty very seriously. John for his part joined him whenever he could to help him pass the time. Des Voeux had often read during his watch duties, but Henry insisted that he would personally get too immersed in his book to still be a sufficient guard. Having seen Henry read many times, John was inclined to agree. 

So, instead of bringing his lover books, they’d talk about home, about the whale, about their late captain. On the second day, John had started teaching Henry chess. 

Now, during the young man’s guard duty on the third day, they were playing. Henry’s strategy was clumsy and predictable, but John could virtually see him learn with every wrong move he made. He’d always admired how Henry would immediately store information and use it to better his understanding. It had been especially useful for teaching the young man Latin. After an impressively short amount of time, Henry had had a very decent grasp on its vocabulary. 

John expected him to be able to checkmate him easily by the time they made it back to England. The  _ coming back  _ was something they’d discussed only briefly so far, but as they sat on empty barrels in front of the hold, John found himself longing for something bright, something good, something to counteract his grief. Something to look forward to. A certain future, a home, a life after this nightmarish voyage.

A life James Fitzjames would never get to have. 

The Terror was in mourning; it was plain on every man’s face – even Tozer’s and others’ who had once stood fast by Hickey. John for his part was used to grief. He was used to loss and mourning and pain. And he knew that the only way to heal was to  _ let _ oneself heal. To look on the future, rather than the past.

And this future, the future John had been picturing with increasing frequency, was bright enough to remind him of the sun during these days full of shadows.

“Henry?” He watched the young man, who was staring down at the board in concentration. He was chewing on his lower lip, much like he did when John gave him pleasure. The sight was distracting, and John ached to reach out and tug Henry’s lower lip loose with his thumb. 

“ _ A moment,  _ John,” Henry mumbled, more irascible than John was used to from him. “I’m  _ thinking. _ ”

John couldn’t help but smile. He watched, fondly and patiently, as Henry’s eyes scanned the board. Finally, Henry made his move. It wasn’t the move John would have made by far, but it already showed clearer thinking than his past moves, and the older man felt his chest swell with pride and adoration. 

“… Yes?” Henry said, finally looking up with a sheepish smile.

“What are you going to do?” John asked. “When we get back to England?”

Henry arched his brow and thought for a moment before huffing a laugh. “Take a bath.”

John chuckled softly, though his thoughts strayed to the image of Henry in a tub filled with warm water and oils that smelled of lavender and roses, of the young man’s skin and hair going smooth and soft like silk under the water and the tension draining from his small body. 

“I admit I was thinking… in more permanent terms.”

Henry’s forehead creased at that, and his watchful eyes turned more serious, focusing on John fully.

“… What do you mean?” he asked cautiously.

“I’m not quite ready to let go of sleeping so close to you every night, Henry… Or of having a home that you also call your own.”

“… John Bridgens,” Henry asked softly, his voice nearly a whisper. “Are you asking me to live with you?”

“If you would like to.”

Henry swallowed, staring at him from across the board. The slight blush that John had grown so fond of reached the young man’s cheeks again. 

“Would you really…have me intrude on your life ashore like that?” Henry asked uncertainly. “What will your loved ones say?”

John smiled solemnly and reached across the barrel between them to take Henry’s hand.

“You  _ are  _ my loved one, Henry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Im sorry


	13. To Outlive

**PEGLAR**

Henry wasn’t often speechless. Not out of overblown confidence or anything of the sort, but because he’d always had a good command of words; even more so now that John had gifted him so much new knowledge. 

And yet, when John Bridgens asked him to live with him, to make a home together when they were back in England, his soul filled with so much joy that his mind couldn’t form a sentence.

For a long moment, he and John simply smiled at each other.

And while the two lovers shared a smile so beautiful it belonged far away from this ship and its tragedies, the monster, the whale, the _Tuunbaq_ attacked the Terror.

The Terror shook and men cried out on deck as they were reeled into the final tragedy like helpless whales on a towline. 

One second, Henry was gazing into John’s eyes, and the next, he was tossed across the companionway like a puppet when the ship was rammed. Wood splintered and walls shook as if the ship was experiencing an earthquake. Henry heard and _felt_ a crack inside himself when he landed on the ground a fair distance away from where he and John had sat. John had been thrown off his barrel as well, but he’d crashed against the door to the next room instead of flying down the companionway.

“Henry!” John called out fearfully when the younger man groaned at the pain in his torso. Before the older man could try to get to him, the ship was rammed yet again. Henry blinked and looked aft. The stern of the ship was stove in. In horror, he watched as the ocean began rushing in. 

“Henry!” John’s voice was right next to him this time and made him jump. The steward had somehow managed to crawl along the wall lining the companionway while the ship began tilting. “Take my hand,” the older man said quickly, helping Henry sit up as gently as he could with all the urgency upon them. “Can you move?”

Henry swallowed and clutched his side. The pain in his ribcage was thrumming, but the water was already lapping at his boots. Soon they’d have to swim if they wanted to reach the latch.

He grit his teeth as he pushed onto his knees and started shuffling and crawling along the wall, following John blindly. When they made it to the door to the hold, Henry paused. 

“John…” he said softly. “Do we…leave him here to die?”

John paused and stared at the door for a moment.

“… Cornelius Hickey is no Philoctetes, Henry,” he said eventually, his voice quiet and almost pained. “Besides that, it is not up to us to decide his fate… Crozier would have him executed. I’d say this way he has more of a chance to fight for his survival than he would with a rope around his neck.” John paused briefly, still looking at the door, his brows furrowed deeply. “ _That will come when it comes; we must deal with all that lies before us. The future rests with the ones who tend the future,_ ” he quoted softly. “Come, Henry. We cannot risk our lives for a murderer.”

Henry mirrored John’s frown, but then he realised that the thought of John drowning in the attempt to save _Cornelius Hickey_ of all people was impossible to bear. John must have been thinking the same about him.

With a thrumming in his chest equal to the one in his side, he continued his crawl.

By the time he and John reached the ladder, the water had risen to their elbows. John pulled himself up onto the ladder first, before turning to lift Henry out of the water, cradling him against his chest like a groom embracing his new bride. He did so seemingly without effort, and Henry was grateful for his lover’s strength. He did not think he could have managed to climb the ladder with the pain in his ribcage.

“Can you reach the deck?” John asked, and his voice sounded just a little strained. Henry turned to assess the space between himself and the edge of the deck and nodded, reaching for it immediately. John lifted him higher carefully, but suddenly, the older man slipped on the wet ladder. Henry yelped, both at the shock and the sudden flash of pain at the harsh movement. Luckily, the steward caught himself before they could both fall back into the water. How he balanced them both out without the use of his hands, Henry didn’t know.

When John tried lifting him onto deck again, another pair of hands suddenly grabbed Henry from above, and the young man looked up to see the concerned face of Thomas Jopson. With both the stewards’ help, Henry made it onto deck, where panic reigned. 

Behind him, he could hear John hurrying up the ladder, and he turned to offer his hand despite his injury. 

What he noticed when he turned around were not his lover’s reaching arms. It was the gigantic white arch of Tuunbaq’s back, twice the size of the ship even half submerged. It was the speed at which the white monster advanced.

“John!” Henry screamed, but it was too late. The creature crashed into them again, and John fell backwards into the flooded hold. The water was thrashing against the quickly wrecking ship harshly by now, and the strong waves dragged John away before Henry could so much as look into his eyes.

Henry screamed again.

Arms slid under his shoulders and he was lifted by Hartnell and Jopson. The remaining men, the men who’d _made it out alive,_ were already fleeing into the boats.

Henry screamed a third time. 

He squirmed and struggled against the hold his two crewmates had on him. He didn’t care that they were trying to save his life. He was _not_ going to outlive the man he loved.

“Henry,” Hartnell called desperately, trying to evade Henry’s kicking feet as he and Jopson attempted to bring him to the nearest boat. “He would want you to _live,_ Henry!”

Henry could only scream. Scream, and scream, and scream. His eyes were still fixed on the latch where he’d last seen his lover.

When he was lifted into the boat, the latch disappeared from his field of vision, and Henry finally started sobbing.

Two boats were hastily lowered into the water. Two boats; that was all that was left of Terror’s crew. Jospon, Hartnell, Tozer, Silna, Goodsir and little Pippin were on Henry’s boat. On the other boat, slightly more cramped than this one, Henry, through tears and crashing waves, could make out Crozier, Morfin, Chambers, Best, Diggle, Wentzell, Armitage, and Daggoo, towering above them all.

The rest of the men who’d set sail with them two years ago were dead. Blanky, who’d beaten the Tuunbaq twice. Tashtego, who’d killed the most whales out of all of them. Thomas Honey, who’d just finished their late captain’s coffin. William Gibson, Robert Golding and Magnus Manson, who had been Hickey’s mutineers from the start. 

All of them, gone. Henry tried and failed to think of more names, until his cruel mind whispered _John Bridgens_ and Henry felt faint. Black spots appeared in his vision, and he tried to scream again, but his sobbing had left him with too little air to make any sound.

“Man overboard!” 

The words barely got through to Henry at first.

“It’s Mr. Bridgens!” Jopson cried cheerfully. 

Henry gave an ugly, mirthless laugh. He was dreaming, he was sure of it. He’d blacked out, and he was dreaming. 

“Give him a hand, Tommy!” 

More voices rolled over Henry in waves, and he stopped listening to them. 

“ _Henry_.”

He woke up.

This was not a voice.

This was home.

Henry opened his eyes.

“… John?” he whispered. His lover’s clothes were wet, as was his hair. He tucked it behind his ears to keep the strands from dripping onto Henry as he leaned over him. Henry reached out until he could touch his fingers to John’s chest. He was there. Solid. Real. His heart was beating against Henry’s fingers, against the Sphynx herself.

Henry sat up abruptly, despite the incredibly sharp pain in his side, and threw his arms around John’s shoulders. His own clothes became drenched, and he shivered, but he couldn’t have cared less about the chill. It was only his body that was cold. His soul was warm.

“… I have to help rowing, my love,” John whispered into his ear after a moment. “We have to get away from the whale.” John moved back and carefully pulled Henry’s arms away from where they were holding on to him, but before he could get up, Goodsir put a hand on his shoulder.

“… Stay with him,” the doctor said softly. “It will help if you hold him so the waves don’t jostle him too much… I’ll row in your stead.”

John looked up at the doctor, and Henry could feel the gratitude coming off of his lover. He wanted to give Goodsir the same grateful look, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from John.

“I thought you’d died,” he whispered, far too quietly to be heard over the waves. The steward shifted to sit on the ground by him and carefully maneuvered him so he could lean back against John’s chest, with John’s arms securely around him. “I thought you’d died,” Henry whispered again. He could feel John’s fingers gently stroking along Henry’s arms where he was holding him and trying to keep him as still as he could.

A shocked cry interrupted this moment of pure relief.

“Captain!”

When Henry turned his head to look at the other boat, he could see the tip of a harpoon protruding from the water, like Poseidon’s trident sentencing them to death.

Next, he saw a hand grabbing onto the boat. In a flash, the hand and the harpoon turned into a sopping wet Cornelius Hickey with a dangerous, manic gleam in his eyes. 

Morfin tried to grab the spare lance in the boat, but Hickey’s harpoon sliced his hand before he could even raise it, and it fell into the water where it sunk immediately. 

Then, in nearly the same movement, Hickey’s harpoon came back around to stab Captain Crozier in the stomach. 

Henry could hear the pained grunt the man made, and the shocked gasps of the men. The men instantly rushed to steady their captain before he could tumble overboard, but Hickey yanked the tow line of the harpoon, and Crozier fell forward into the ocean with a sharp cry. Immediately, both boats began moving towards the captain and Mr. Hickey, the men rowing to aid their captain without a single command spoken. 

Jopson picked up a lance and aimed it at Hickey. 

Hickey had tied the harpoon’s towline around both himself and Captain Crozier, and was glaring at Jopson with a gaze that seemed inhuman. 

If Mr. Hickey had ever been sane, in all the months they’d traveled together, he wasn’t anymore, and if he hadn’t, Henry thought, he must have been the devil himself to act like a man for two years, when he was really a monster.

Hickey reached under the surface of the water and pulled the harpoon out of Crozier’s abdomen sharply. The man gave another pained groan. 

“Damnit, Jopson, get him!” Tozer shouted at Jopson, who was still aiming the lance, but Henry could see clearly that Hickey was using their captain’s body as a shield, and the crashing waves that rocked their boats would not do Jopson’s aim any favours either.

The seafoam surrounding Hickey and the captain was turning red, and suddenly, like the whale was a shark attracted by blood, Henry saw the massive white shadow directly beneath them all. The other men did too.

“Quick! Away, away! We have to row, men! Row! If the beast comes up it will overturn us! It will kill us all!" someone shouted. 

And so the men began rowing, save for Jopson, who rushed to the railing with his lance and shouted for their captain.

The boats moved faster than they ever had in any hunt, or so it seemed to Henry. The men were rowing for their _lives._

Muscle spasms and blistered hands went unnoticed in the face of death. The other boat rowed in the opposite direction, the fastest way to get away from the whale to them, and soon, Henry lost sight of them.

He could however still see Crozier and Hickey. He could see the whale, the _beast,_ the great white God, come up right beside them. Its horrifying, pitch-black eyes. A row of fangs sticking out from its large mouth. 

Hickey gave a demented, bestial scream and lurched himself at the beast, harpoon in hand. He forced it right into the thick white skin of its head with secure aim and strength that shouldn’t have been possible from such a small man, and without any ground beneath his feet to offer traction. 

For the split of a second, the whale didn’t move, and for the split of a second, Henry thought Hickey had actually done it.

For the split of a second, Henry believed Cornelius Hickey had killed Tuunbaq the whale. 

Then, the creature rose higher above the surface, with the harpoon sticking out of its head like a bizarre, nightmarish narwhal horn. The tow line had almost no leeway, and Hickey and Crozier were half lifted from the water, before the whale suddenly, all at once, shot back beneath the surface and disappeared.

It disappeared, and Francis Crozier with it. 

Both men were dragged underwater by the creature, and within seconds not even the white shadow remained. 

The deep, dark sea hid the creature entirely and with it buried a brilliant captain, and a madman.

The men were paralysed. Where they had rowed for their lives before, they didn’t dare move a muscle now. To their right, the Terror was sinking. To their left, their captain had been swallowed by the very sea they’d thought themselves rulers of. The suction of both drew the boat in and came close to sinking it along with its ship.

Through some miracle, they stayed afloat. The relentless rowing had paid off; they were far enough away to be spared by the vortex that swallowed the wreck.

With time, the waves dragged them further away from it, instead of closer, and nobody did anything about it. They all sat, silent and motionless, as if the whale had taken all their souls with it when it disappeared with their captain.

Eventually, the wind changed, and water became calmer and calmer, until the surface was still again. Mockingly peaceful after what had transpired. 

It was then that the men finally started rowing. In silence. In shock. In grief.

John held Henry close to his chest and hushed him whenever he whimpered in pain.

Nightfall came. There were some rations stored in the boat, but not enough to see them through for longer than a week. In the lantern keg, some of Blanky’s favorite tobacco was hidden away. The men split it between themselves. They buried themselves under the coils of hemp line for warmth as the chill of the night set in. John never once let go of Henry.

They drifted for a whole day and a whole night. Next to no word was spoken. They looked for the other boat in vain and feared, deep down, that they were the sole survivors of the Terror. But, as if God wanted them to live, survive they did. The sea remained calm. The sharks glided by as if with padlocks on their deadly mouths. The savage sea-hawks traveled on the wind with their sharp beaks sheathed.

On the second day, a sail drew nearer. Pip was the one to spot it first. Nearer and nearer, until it picked them up at last.

It was a trade ship, so entirely foreign to them after two years on a whaler, and yet, to Henry, the playground of his entire youth.

Dr. Goodsir wrapped up Henry’s torso while Thomas Jopson told the young Captain Ross what had happened to them and their ship. The retelling of these events made them seem like a Greek tragedy, rather than reality. Henry wished he’d merely read them in a play, rather than lived them.

Once the tragic heroes of the Terror had settled on the _Enterprise_ that had picked them up like orphans of the sea, they sailed back towards the wreck of the Terror in search of the second boat.

If their crewmates were still alive, it would double the number of survivors on this cursed voyage. 

As the Enterprise sailed, Henry stood at the stern with his bound ribs and stared at the sea. The sea that he’d once called his home. 

It was no home to him now. It was a graveyard.

John stepped up next to him and rested his hand on Henry’s shoulder. Neither man said a word.

A call from the crow’s nest broke the silence.

“Boat ahoy!”

Henry’s eyes widened and he pressed himself closer to the railing to stare harder.

It took a few minutes to get near enough to see, but when they did, what he saw wasn’t a boat, and it didn’t carry their crewmates.

What he saw was a coffin, made buoyant by a man who was buried deep beneath their feet, with James Fitzjames’ initials carved into the lid.

And sprawled across it, carried by the ocean like a king on his sedan chair, was their captain.

Francis Crozier lifted his head from the lid of the coffin and looked straight into Henry’s eyes.

Starved, tired, weak, but _alive._

Three days after two monsters had dragged Crozier underwater, Henry Peglar saw that his captain had bested both of them.

Not by getting away, and not by outliving them.

Francis Crozier bested the White Whale who'd haunted his life by fulfilling his beloved’s dying wish. With his chest pressed to James Fitzjames’ initials, Crozier’s eyes held _life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well there you have it. Thank you for reading!  
> Massive thanks to my twitter squad for keeping me moderately sane while I was writing this.  
> This was my first (and probably last) Big Bang, and I had so, so much fun putting this little monster together.
> 
> If you want to sue me for emotional damages, you or your lawyer can contact me on twitter ;)   
> [actual_cyborg](https://twitter.com/actual_cyborg?s=09)  
> 
> 
> Sources: oh boy there's a lot
> 
> The Terror, Dan Simmons  
> Moby Dick, Herman Melville  
> The Terror (2018)  
> Moby Dick (1956)  
> The Symposium, Plato  
> The Loss Of The Ship Essex, Sunk By A Whale, Thomas Nickerson  
> Philocetetes, Sophocles  
> Antigone, Sophocles  
> [Whaling In The UK](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Whaling_in_the_United_Kingdom)  
> [Trojan Women](http://classics.mit.edu/Euripides/troj_women.html)  
> [Life Aboard A Whaler](https://www.whalingmuseum.org/learn/research-topics/overview-of-north-american-whaling/life-aboard)  
> [Whaling Ships](https://gazette665.com/2017/06/15/whaling-ships-a-few-historical-details/)  
> [Gam](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gam_\(nautical_term\)#:~:text=From%20Wikipedia%2C%20the%20free%20encyclopedia,its%20meaning%20from%20that%20source.)  
> [Mahone Bay](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mahone_Bay)  
> [Whaling Crew](https://www.nps.gov/nebe/learn/historyculture/whaleship.htm)  
> [Illiad, Ganymede](http://www.perseus.tufts.edu/hopper/text?doc=Perseus%3Atext%3A1999.01.0134%3Abook%3D20%3Acard%3D199)  
> [Sphinx](https://www.greekmythology.com/Myths/Monsters/Sphinx/sphinx.html)  
> [St. Elmo's Fire](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St._Elmo%27s_fire#Julius_Caesar)  
> [St. Elmo's Fire Video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EBgb8lFtHa8)  
> [St. Elmo's Fire Footage](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wH5TujX0yNE)  
> [Whaleboats](http://www.columbia.edu/~njs2115/Vessels/web-content/Whaleboats.html)  
> [Whaleboats pt 2](https://www.dartmouthheritagemuseum.ns.ca/wp-content/uploads/2013/06/DHM-Gazette_Sept-2015.pdf)  
> [Whaling Tools](https://americanhistory.si.edu/onthewater/exhibition/3_7.html)  
> [Monkey Belt](https://americanhistory.si.edu/onthewater/collection/AG_057716.html)  
> [O Bury Me Not](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R5Kx22t3Ejc)  
> [Ambergris](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ambergris#:~:text=Ambergris%20\(%2F%CB%88%C3%A6mb,has%20a%20marine%2C%20fecal%20odor.)


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